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The Dawn 

OR 

THE STORY OF A 
BRITISH ARMY OFFICER 

In Ireland, England, Africa and America 


BY 

J. H. MORTIMER 

>\ 


Illustrated 




J. H. MORTIMER 


PUBLISHER 



'y'TJb 


f LiB«A.»Y of ni>fiy><Ess 
iwo Oo{)iej f(oc«<vui 

MAR 6 1905 

Oooyfi^ni tntry 
cuss ct. AXc. Not 




Copyright 1904 by J. H. MORTIMER 


on limited 

■Jk 


Autograph Edition Ihpited to 1000 copies, 
of which this is No. 

Signed 





Author. 



M. A. DONOHUE & CO., PRINTERS AND BINDERS, 407-429 DEARBORN 8T., CHICAGO 



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‘ ■ ‘.Jji '•■'-’Ti. 







CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER page 

I. Captain Durand 5 

II. The Harvest Fair 13 

III. Jula Baby 24 

IV. Owney Beg 32 

V. The Mountain Cabin 43 

VI. Neddy '’Bawn 51 

VII. The Banquet — Song and Story 57 

VIII. The Vengeance of Heaven 68 

IX. The 17th Lancers Interrupt Philosophy. . 75 

X. Fate 84 

XI. The Fall of Belleek 92 

XII. Alice Devere 103 

XIII. The 15th of August and the Fairy Bridges. 1 13 

XIV. Parting Near the Old Thatched School. . . 121 

XV. Mullingar 125 

XVI. The Woman in Silk 135 

XVII. The Mess-Murder 142 

XVIII. Rest in Peace 150 

XIX. Zululand — The Rescue 156 

XX. Ulundi — Paying a Debt 163 

XXI. The Camp — The Package from Ireland 

— Song 169 

XXII. MajubaHill 183 

XXIII. The Leitrim Doctor 193 

XXIV. Scientific Shooting 202 

XXV. A Gentleman’s Revenge 206 

XXVI, Irish American and American Irish 21 1 

3 


4 


Contents 


XXVII. The Convoy 220 

XXVIII. Some More Memories 226 

XXIX. An Incident in Galway 235 

XXX. The Emergency Men — Bigotry 243 

XXXI. The Evictions 252 

XXXII. A Chapter on Politics 261 

XXXIII. America 271 

XXXIV. The Hotel Debonnaire 280 

XXXV. The Vision of an Angel 288 

XXXVI. Fire Bells 296 

XXXVII. A Flash from the Grave 305 

XXXVIII. The Sleigh Ride Treachery 315 

XXXIX. Explanation — Recognition — Reconcilia- 
tion 323 

XL. The End 331 


The Dawn 


CHAPTER I. 

CAPTAIN DURAND. 

When I was on my way to the United States 
in the spring of 1882, I was sitting on the 
promenade deck of one of the ocean greyhounds 
of the period, one night, at about ten o’clock, 
smoking and admiring the phosphorescent glow 
on the big waves as they dashed furiously 
against the ship’s side, or came over the deck 
with a swish and a roar, threatening to wash 
everything that was loose over the rail on the 
lee side. As the great ship careened to port, at 
the same time dipping her nose into a big on- 
coming wave that threatened to wash up to 
my knees, I involuntarily jumped to my feet, 
dragging my chair, which I half swung, half 
dragged to the shelter on the lee side of the 
superstructure. In the momentary confusion I 
awkwardly bumped into a young man who had 
been sitting there. When I turned to apologize 
I was struck by his appearance and particularly 
by his jovial good-nature, and the delightful way 
in which he minimized the thwack I had given 
him on the shins with the chair I had so clumsily 


6 


The Dawn 


handled. He stood up, and, being squarely un- 
der the electric light, I had a good opportunity 
of measuring him from top to toe, at a glance. 

Since I was a small boy I have always found 
that men’s faces are open books, and their char- 
acters are as indelibly stamped there as if they 
were printed, by the hand of God. At first I 
must have formed my opinions of men, in- 
tuitively, but in later years I developed the art 
by first forming the opinion and then watching 
developments. After many years of that kind 
of espionage on men’s faces I find that I am 
rarely out of the way, and now I either like a 
man or have no further use for him after a two 
minutes’ interview. 

When I met that young man I formed an 
opinion of him, and, after knowing him for over 
twenty years, I have found no reason to revise 
my opinion a particle, and that opinion, in one 
word, was, gentleman! He was about five feet- 
eleven inches in height and weighed — I should 
judge — about eleven stone and a half, or i6i 
pounds. He was square shouldered, straight 
limbed, and of soldierly bearing, and his age was 
about twenty-three years. In fact about my 
own age, size and build. 

We stood there, momentarily surveying each 
other. Our thoughts must have been synchro- 
nous and our impressions of each other iden- 
tical, as we reached out our hands almost invol- 
untarily and as if practicing a tableau, and our 


Captain Durand 


7 


first handshake had a mutual warmth in it, the 
warmth of genuine friendship, a friendship that 
has never cooled since. During all the years we 
have known each other — in fair weather and 
foul, sunshine and shade, political upheaval and 
business unrest — that friendship has never 
changed. We may hold opposite views, may sug- 
gest diametrically opposed remedies, advocate 
or oppose certain legislation, support different 
candidates, but we never let our views interfere 
with that old friendship. 

Each respects the other’s opinions, moral, 
social and political, and I might add, religious, 
so it has been real and the kind that is abiding. 

On that first night of our acquaintance we 
just sat there and smoked, while exchanging 
opinions on the topics of the day and relating 
our experiences. Each told why he was coming 
to the “States,” and of the plans formed, or 
being formed, for the future. I learned from 
him what I had more than half suspected, that 
he had been an officer in the British army, that 
he had been through all the fierce fighting which 
commenced at Roark’s Drift, in the Zulu war, 
and terminated at Majuba Hill in the Boer war. 

In the latter battle he had received one dan- 
gerous and four very severe wounds. In fact, 
between Zulu and Boer he had been pretty 
roughly handled. 

As he had been taken prisoner of war at Ma- 
juba Hill, it was some time before he got home 


8 


The Dawn 


to Ireland. When he did get home finally, he 
found that his father had been dead for some 
time; and as the family estates were entailed and 
heavily mortgaged, he found himself without re- 
sources other than a small annuity and his pay 
with which to keep up appearances in a crack, 
and consequently extravagant, regiment. 

As he could not hope to make both ends meet 
in the army and as his wounds were of such 
severity that he could retire on half pay, he sor- 
rowfully accepted that alternative. 

When he was retired he was too proud to 
live at hom'e on a pittance — a respectable beg- 
gar, so he was on his way when I met him to a 
country in which it was not considered degrad- 
ing to work for a living. He therefore deter- 
mined to go west and start anew in that haven 
of the ambitious, courageous, enterprising and 
aspiring youth of all lands and conditions. 

During our conversation, two young fellows 
had been sitting near, smoking cigarettes and 
engaged in a rather animated and boisterous dis- 
cussion, concerning the relative “values,” “pedi- 
grees” and “points” of various horses, dogs and 
cats, owned by their respective fathers. The 
youths themselves seemed to be pretty well 
groomed and “heeled,” and showed a sang froid 
inseparable from Americans of wealth. 

As my friend lamented the fact that because 
of his social position, and that of his relatives, 
he was compelled to go to a foreign country 


Captain Durand 


9 


to do that which custom would not allow him 
to do at home — work — the young fellows sidled 
up to us, and pushed themselves into the con- 
versation. It was soon evident that their inten- 
tion was to argue democracy, versus aristoc- 
racy. 

One of them said: “In sitting so close, we un- 
intentionally overheard part of your conversa- 
tion, and were particularly amused when this 
military gentleman said that he could not, be- 
cause of prejudice against it, work for a living 
at home.” 

My friend said it was, no doubt, beastly and 
absurd, but as it was so, he could not hope, sin- 
gle-handed, to change it. 

The American said: “You Tistocrats’ live too 
much in the past, too much on the reputations 
of your ancestors to suit me.” 

My friend said : “Oh ! we are not exactly try- 
ing to suit you, but in suiting ourselves, I, for 
one, would a good deal rather live up to the 
reputation of a good and honorable ancestor 
than be compelled to live down the reputation 
of a bad one.” 

“We care very little for the reputations of our 
ancestors, beyond our daddy,” replied the 
American. “If he has the ^stuff’ all other an- 
cestors to the dump; my father made his ‘pile’ 
in oil, and it is just as good for me to spend as 
if it had come down from King Solomon, ain’t 
it, Jim?” 


10 


The Dawn 


My friend said: “If you are sincere in what 
you say, now, all your previous conversation 
about your blooded dogs, horses and cats was 
just meaningless brag and guff, because, being 
on deck, we could not avoid overhearing your 
conversation on that subject.” 

“You bet! it was no guff,” retorted the other. 
“My old man has two hundred thousand dol- 
lars invested in blooded stock of all kinds, but 
what has that to do with men?” 

“If breeding and ancestry is a good thing for 
horses and dogs, and even cats, it certainly must 
be a good thing for men. I should think that 
a ‘Collie,’ if capable of reasoning, would feel 
degraded in the company of his master, if his 
(the Collie’s) pedigree went back to Charles 
the first, and his master’s originated in an oil 
well in Ohio, which blew out its casing two years 
ago, and started in to ‘produce’ at the rate of a 
thousand barrels, or dollars, a day, in oil, or 
money, or blooded stock; I notice, too, that 
whatever you men think, or pretend to think, on 
the subject, your rich sisters never seem to care 
about the present character of the man of noble 
birth, so long as he can give them a title and 
their children a pedigree. Now! if a title could 
be conferred on a man by a woman, at marriage, 
you men, who talk so jeeringly of the matter, 
would bring over oil wells and leave them at the 
feet of pock-marked nobility, and I don’t sup- 
pose you would be overzealous in investigating 


Captain Durand 


II 


their characters, either. In developing a fad 
for blooded dogs and cats and things, you simply 
try to get as close to something with a pedigree 
as you can.” 

As I thought the matter was going rather 
close to the line, I suggested throwing a few 
barrels of the oil on the waters to insure calm, 
and both parties took the hint. 

After studying for a couple of years for a pro- 
fession, my friend drifted into the business most 
congenial to him, and the one for which he was 
best fitted — the book business. He graduated 
in medicine, but the surgical part being repul- 
sive to him, he never practiced ; was admitted to 
the bar, but the practice of criminal law was not 
congenial, so the one thing that was congenial 
being the book business, he proved a success 
at it from the start. 

As he spends a good part of the time on the 
road, looking after his agents and his interests 
generally, I meet him very often, my territory 
as a traveling man, and his as a trade agent, or 
importer, being in the same section of the coun- 
try — the Middle West — we ride on the same 
trains, stay at the sarne hotels, and live in the 
same city, and, therefore, always have kept in 
touch. 

When we “Sunday over” at the same point, 
we naturally get together and recount our ex- 
periences of the old days and the new, and I 
want to say right here that I would rather listen 


12 


The Dawn 


to a story, or reminiscence, as told by Captain 
Durand — late of Her Majesty’s th’ Dragoons — 
than go to hear, or see, the best play on the 
stage. 

Some time ago I found him in a reminiscent 
mood, and I pressed him for a story of his per- 
sonal experiences, in civil and military life, 
which he had long promised me. 

After lighting our pipes, and getting into as 
comfortable positions as the furniture of the 
room would permit, he puffed for quite a while, 
and seemed to be looking into the past, through 
the rings and spirals and twisting, eddying 
smoke from his meerschaum pipe and delicious 
tobacco, he commenced thus. 


CHAPTER 11. 


“THE HARVEST FAIR.” 

When I was a boy, about twelve years old, 
lively as a young deer, sturdy and strong, my 
father allowed me to go with the hands, to 
work after school, if I pleased, in the hay-field, 
the potato field, or in the bog. 

He said it would develop muscle, and it did; 
I could do any kind of work that any other boy 
of my age could, in the neighborhood. 

I attended school, too, just as the neighbor’s 
boys did, regardless of the fact that it is not 
usual for people in my class, socially, to do so. 

My father believed in social equality more 
than most men of his time or class, and I devel- 
oped friendships with those sturdy, honest 
farmers’ sons, that I had very good reason to 
be thankful for in after life. 

The school was a long, one story affair, 
thatched and rough cast, weather-beaten and 
old. 

The school and the teacher are both gone; a 
new school stands near the ruins of the old one, 
but .when the teacher went, his place could not 
be filled as he filled it. When he crossed the 
bourne, one of those brilliant intellects, of the 
old days, too modest to proclaim itself, went 
13 


14 


The Dawn 


with him, and the whole countryside was the 
loser. 

His scholarship was profound, and he dis- 
coursed more lucidly on complex questions, and 
explained them more thoroughly, than any man 
I have ever met, in college or out of it. 

He used to hold us spellbound, while dis- 
coursing on Greek and Oriental mythology, or 
on the history, folklore, fables and old war tales 
of our own or any other land known to civili- 
zation. I have often wondered, since, how one 
person could accumulate the fund of knowledge 
he seemed to have, and retain it so well. He 
knew more on the subject of anatomy than I 
did when I graduated in surgery, and at algebra, 
and Euclid he was perfection itself. 

My class was in the middle of a brain-rack- 
ing problem in Euclid one day, when a diversion 
occurred that I verily believe saved some of us 
from brain fever. 

My uncle came to the school to ‘‘borrow” 
me from my lessons for a day. The next day 
being the date on which the “Harvest Fair” was 
held annually in Ballyshannon, he wanted me, 
he said, because of my willingness to be oblig- 
ing, and my fleetness of foot, I being (as he put 
it) “the quickest wee cub in the parish.” As he 
was going to the fair with a drove of young 
cattle, I would come in mighty handy to cut 
across the corners of fields and “cap” the 


The Harvest Fair 


15 

heifers and turn them into the paths of recti- 
tude. 

In a country like Ireland, where the popula- 
tion is dense, the roads and cross roads are 
naturally numerous, and I was to be used, as 
cavalry is used in warfare, to dash out and 
around the flanks, harrass the stragg-lers, sur- 
round the detached bodies, and go in for turning 
movements generally, with the dexterity of a 
“Ney” or a “Picton.’' 

The teacher said I could easily lose a day, as 
I was far ahead of my class in my studies. 

“Why! John,” said the teacher, addressing my 
uncle, “that boy saved the credit of my school, 
last week, when the inspector was here, and as 
he is anxious to see the Harvest Fair, doubtless, 
I will be pleased to give him a day off,” so I got 
excused for the following day and was envied 
by the whole school. 

When school let out I had to fight for my 
honors, too. There was a jealous bully at that, 
as there is at every other school on earth; I was 
always a peaceable little fellow, and not inclined 
to quarrel or fight, till provoked too far, or when 
I saw some girl or small boy being abused, when 
some big coward took advantage of their weak- 
ness. He believed that I would be an easy con- 
quest, as I had avoided a clash with him sev- 
eral times. So this day he provoked me to the 
point where I must fight or be called a coward. 
A ring was formed around us, and we stripped 


1 6 The Dawn 

to the shirt and trousers. He rushed at me with 
his head down, and I waited; when he came 
within striking distance I stepped aside and gave 
him what I have since learned is called an upper- 
cut, and the fight was over; I never had any 
more trouble with him. 

“The Harvest Fair” of Ballyshannon is the 
great event of the year, and as important to 
that part of the country as “The Derby” is to 
London and its vicinity. 

The Crosbys — to whom no other strolling 
band of sweeps could hold a candle in a fight — 
would be there sure,, and the Joyces, champions 
among the fighting tinkers, and all the other 
strolling bands of tinkers and sweeps in Ulster 
and Connaught would meet them, and, if strong 
enough, there would be warm times, and if there 
is anything that appeals to a boy of twelve more 
than a fight, I don't know its name. 

All the ballad singers and tumblers in the 
country, and some from across the channel, 
would be there. The fellows that can pull 
money out of the air and the farmer’s whiskers 
would surely be on hand with their “black art,” 
to cause us to experience both awe and fear, 
for is it not known of all men that they are 
“sowld to the divil” (the Lord have mercy on 
us), hence the black art. Then those long rows 
of standings, piled high with good things, to 
read, and eat, and wear. Here is a standing 
where the little fat woman with the red face 






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The Harvest Fair 


17 


dispenses sugar candy and loose English for a 
“hapeny.” There you can get the “solid goold 
watches” (be me faith) for “tuppence” apiece. 
And see! yonder are the grapes from Malaga, 
Majorka and America, for “thruppence” a 
bunch. Then, too, the German bands will be 
there, and those Germans have such a wonder- 
ful taste for music that one of them actually 
swallows about two feet of the bright brass in- 
strument he plays, just when it is making the 
sweetest music. He draws it into him with a 
jerky motion, and swallows it in gulps. 

And our own old blind “Mickey the piper” 
will be there, the best of them all. He played 
at our fathers' weddings and at our christenings. 
His music is our own Irish music, too. He can 
play sweet enough to stop a fight, heavenly 
enough to stop the angels in their flight, merry 
enough to make them fold their wings and dance, 
blythe enough to call the birds from the bushes, 
grand enough to make you long for war, and 
sad enough to make you cry, even at “The Har- 
vest Fair.” 

It is a fact beyond contradiction that no circus 
can produce such a variety of acrobats, fakirs, 
slight-of-hand men, jugglers, ballad singers, 
huxters and people capable of giving more en- 
tertainment or wheedling you out of your 
money quicker than the motley aggregation an- 
nually congregated at the Harvest Fair of Bally- 
shannon. 


i8 The Dawn 

Well! we left home about four o’clock in the 
morning, with a bellowing lot of young heifers, 
and a lively time we had getting there. I, in par- 
ticular, had my hands full, or my feet or both, 
and I was just as hoarse as our big white drake 
— Henry Tudor — that was compelled to turn his 
head and quack into his own ear to learn that 
he was not deaf and dumb. 

When a person has achieved the dignity of 
going to the harvest fair and driving cattle, too, 
he must practice the ethics of the occasion. He 
must, in other words, talk shop or shout shop, 
and, if he expects cattle to respect his authority, 
he must yell lustily, “Hoi I hoi I thwo there !” or, 
if he tries a turning movement and fails to out- 
flank, he must wheedle the animal into the idea 
that his intentions are pacific and not at all what 
she supposed them to be. He must advance 
with a pleading expression on his face the while, 
murmuring plaintively, “Churse ! Churse! 
Churse-a-hallien !” in the softest accents his raw 
throat will permit, till he gets past, then he is, 
according to custom, to aim a clout at her with 
a stick which he had scientifically concealed, like 
a masked battery, to open on her when she least 
expected it. If he does that, he will find the 
average heifer so guilless that he can even re- 
peat the manoeuvre as often as there is a cross- 
roads, without arousing her suspicions. 

Tired, therefore, of limb and throat, we landed 
our her.d at the place designated by the market- 


The Harvest Fair 


19 

master. And my duties and responsibilities 
ended right there. 

As my uncle was -compelled to stay there till 
the last of the herd w^as sold, he gave me a shil- 
ling, telling me at the same time that I could 
take in the sights, warning me, however, not to 
be too extravagant in my expenditures;, and 
naming a place where I should meet him at a 
certain hour. 

I certainly intended to keep the tryst, but it 
was my first harvest fair, and I was carried 
away by the excitement and the panorama of 
curiosities to such an extent that I entirely for- 
got the place and hour, and my weird expe- 
riences were the natural sequence. 

I left little unseen that was anywhere within 
reach, and the limits of my financial resources. 

The erudition of a little fakir, demure in ap- 
pearance — when ofif duty — made such an im- 
pression on me that I followed him around for 
hours. When he disposed of one line or got 
tired of the monotony of selling it, or when he 
got chased by the police, only to reappear at 
another place, in a different role, with a different 
specialty, using an entirely different voice, at 
one time rasping and blatant, at another mellow 
and comical, again profound and dignified, he 
still found me of his audience. 

He had called at our house a few days before 
the fair, to get a light for his pipe and a 'Shrink 
iv milk, i’ ye plaze, mam — God bless the cows!^^ 


20 


The Dawn 


When he got both he was very profuse in his 
thanks, and when, according to the ancient cus- 
tom of the country, he was asked to come in and 
have dinner, he accepted the invitation with the 
breeding of a Chesterfield. 

I was not a little astonished, therefore, to see 
him standing on a stool, behind a big dry goods 
box, which was filled with remnants of ‘‘stuff” 
and calico, each piece containing from a yard to 
a dress pattern of several yards. 

He was expatiating on the merits of each 
piece as he offered it for sale, with the volubility 
of Stick-Foot McGloin, the auctioneer. 

“Come an now, ladies,” he would say, “here is 
a rimlet left over from the Queen’s own coat. It 
is double milled, double twilled, double twisted 
and double reeled, and all the wather from 
Gib’ralther to the Cove o’ Cork, and from that, 
back to Galway Bay, woodn’t wash, stain or 
dye out iv it. It will give ye the grace av a 
countess, the dignity iv a ditchess and the good 
since iv a dacent woman (which nayther iv thim 
has) to wear it, and all for fippence a yard. 
Think iv it now, ladies! A countess, a ditchess 
and a dacent woman, and all for fippence a 
yard.” 

His blandishments were irresistible, and his 
sales rapid, so his stock shrunk, and his pocket 
swelled, and he was out of business in the calico 
line in a very short time. 

Somewhat later, I met him again; this time 


The Harvest Fair 


21 


he was Doctah Brown^ the great American 
doctah. 

Women formed the largest portion of his 
audience in this instance. He was standing on 
an old cart, holding in one hand a little bottle, 
and in the other a small pinch of cotton-batting. 

He had just commenced to address them in 
his most impressive manner when I came up to 
swell his audience. 

“Ladies and gintlemen!” he exclaimed, “you 
see before you a graduate of twinty-siven col- 
leges in America and a post-graduate of tin col- 
leges in Europe, a man, if I must say it meself, 
that has done more for suffering humanity than 
Abraham Lincoln, George Washington or 
Thomas Jifferson (may the Lord rist their 
sowls) — I have abolished pain, done away wid 
aches, banished sorrow and eliminated despair. 

“How did I do it, did you say, mam? I done 
it wid this all persarvin’, most wontherful, most 
powerful, most inexplicable lotion in me hand. 
There is no form of rheumatiz it will not cure, 
no kind, variety, or species of neuralgy it will not 
oblitherate, no tooth ache it will not stop instan- 
taneously. 

“I see the purty wee lady, wid her petticoat 
over her head, suffering the tortures of the 

dam (pardon me abruptness, mam !) wid 

the tooth ache, and phy suffer, mam! whin all 
you have to do is to dhrop a few infinitissimal 
dhrops of this all persarvin' lotion an a bit of the 


22 


The Dawn 


cotton, force it into the yawnin chasm in the 
tooth, and the pain immedjately expires. This 
wondtherful bottle of lotion is worth a guinea, 
but I charge you only the nominal sum of six- 
pence for it, and throw the cotton in free.” And 
they bought him out again. 

The next time I saw him he had an insect 
powder, “Discovered by Con-fucius in far away 
Chinee.” It was guaranteed to annihilate in- 
sects in all stages of embryo, metamorphosis or 
adult life, particularly “flays.” 

As turf is congenial to that pest, and as 
everyone uses turf in Ireland, there are naturally 
some fleas there. 

It is to be regretted that St. Patrick did not 
classify them with other venomous reptiles 
addicted to mayhem, but as he evidently over- 
looked them, they are there in some quantities, 
so, when he held forth eloquently on the death 
dealing qualities of this wonderful powder of 
“Confucius,” his sales were rapid indeed. After 
a few busy minutes, and an inundation of “six- 
pences,” he handed out the last box to an old 
crone, who was evidently deaf, from the fact 
that she yelled as if all the world were deaf, but 
certainly not dumb. 

“Docther darlint,” she yelled, “how do you 
use the powdther, an the flays avic?” 

“Now, mam! first listen to me advice, an’ act 
accordinly: Wet the tip av yer finger an’ ketch 
the flay, open his mouth, dhrop a moiety av the 


The Harvest Fair 


23 


powder an his tongue, and ye are a murd- 
theress;” then he left, amid the cheers and jeers 
of his audience. 

The old woman yelled after him, “Musha bad 
luck t* yer picthur, you spaulpeen ; sure, if I had 
a howlt of the flay, the divil a pinny Fd give you 
to buy ye over as an accissory to the murdther.'’ 


CHAPTER III. 


“JULA BABY.’’ 

All things must come to an end, even “The 
Harvest Fair,” and, as dusk began to fall, and 
I sa^v a long double row of lamps lit on the 
bridge, I got scared, and scampering to the tryst- 
ing place, found that my uncle was not there. I 
hunted all over town, but could find no trace of 
him. I made inquiries at a few places, at which 
our families were in the habit of trading; I was 
informed at the last place that my uncle had 
searched the town for me, and believing that I 
must have started home with some friends, he, 
too, had gone home. 

I had just thruppence left, and was as hungry 
as a bear, or a boy, and six long miles away from 
home. 

I cried awhile in pure sympathy for myself, 
then got ashamed, and gritting my teeth, as- 
sured myself that I was not afraid, I, a Durand, 
afraid! never! 

I would tramp it home, so I would, if ghosts 
appeared at every cross-roads and fairies on 
every “whitethornbush” — where they belong — 
but I shivered at the prospect. 

Like a resourceful general contemplating a 
long and arduous campaign, I carefully investi- 
gated my resources, particularly the commis- 

24 


JuLA Baby 


25 


ariat department. My war fund, as I said, 
amounted to “thruppence.’’ I invested all of it 
on half a loaf of bread. 

The next thing to consider was, which road 
should I take. There was a road on each side of 
'‘The River Erne,” the “Clyhore” road was, of 
course, the best road. It was clean and well 
kept, but hilly. I would have to traverse the 
whole town, cross the half mile of bridge and 
elbow my way through the “Port” to get there. 
It had beautiful clipped hedges, and well built 
walls, on both sides all the way home, but there 
was good unimpeachable authority that at sev- 
eral places on the “Clyhore” road, ghosts had 
been seen. And it actually ran through “the 
valley of the black pig.” Then, there was no 
way of getting around the fact that the fairies 
had headquarters at the big rowantree, on 
“Teevan’s brae.” And it went dangerously close 
to “Teetunny” graveyard. The “Corlea” road 
was not so good. It went over mountain and 
moor, through bog and forest. And there were 
places, as I had been informed, where it was 
not fenced at all, except you could call a deep 
“Schugh” on each side, fences. Suppose a little 
boy, like me, should walk into one of thos® 
“Schughs” in the dark, I would get “dhrooked” 
to the skin. Better to get wet than meet the 
fairies, or ghosts on the “Clyhore” road, where 
the big trees met over it, for a mile, and the 
darkness would be Stygian. 


26 


The Dawn 


The “Corlea"’ road, too, was right at hand; 
all I had to do was to turn my nose east and 
follow it. I never heard of any ghosts on the 
“Corlea” road till you get to “the Crooked 
Bridge,” and again at the “Pullhen Brae.” And 
they are within a couple of miles of home, and 
one could sing, or whistle, and run, or pray, go- 
ing by those places. So ! here goes for “Corlea,” 
and blessing myself, and saying a little prayer, I 
started. 

I broused along on my half loaf, and some- 
times, when I got into dark places, I think I wet 
it with tears. I know there were suspiciously 
soft spots on it. When I got to spots that were 
too dry, I washed them down with thoughts of 
the nice big bowl of milk I would get at home. 

Then I got to a place I had never heard of; 
the trees met in tangled masses over the road, 
and it was as dark as pitch. Alas ! and alas ! why 
did I choose this road? And yet! But why 
anticipate. 

Here I was, though, trudging along an un- 
known road, with darkness dense and all-per- 
vading around me, a little atom in the immen- 
sity of opaque space, forging blindly ahead into 
the teeth of — nothing. What if any fatality 
should occur to me? What if I should fall over 
the awful precipice, unfenced, which I knew I 
would have to pass, at the “Pullhen Brae”? If I 
should fail to get home, I knew well that the 
dear little loving mother would die of grief. 


JuLA Baby 


27 


I have seen her cry and pray for the poor 
souls at sea, when a gale blew from the west, 
carrying inland the thundering roar of the angry 
sea, as it crashed, and moaned, and boomed, 
over and under and around “The Fairy Bridges” 
at “Bundoran.” 

I could imagine her condition, when she be- 
gan to realize that her curly headed little boy, 
her youngest boy, was dead at the bottom of 
that dizzy precipice. And I wept aloud, for her. 

I knew that my father would start out to hunt 
for me, distracted, too, but if he should find me 
before I got home he would box my ears, and 
they actually got warm, and tingled in anticipa- 
tion. If I got home to my mother first, she 
would kiss me, and hug me, and bathe my feet, 
and put me to bed, and come in and kiss me 
when she thought I was asleep, too ; I know, for 
I often caught her doing it. 

I knew she would not sleep till I got home, 
and I cried again because of her trouble. 

She is sleeping now ! sleeping under the roof- 
tree with God. Her place there was well earned 
by her long life of obedience to His commands, 
her unselfish devotion to her husband, her home, 
and us. 

When I got about two miles from town, I 
came to a cross-roads not on my mental map. 

Now! here was a dilemma! It was not ex- 
actly what you could call a cross-roads; it was 
a fork in the road, the roads ran off at an angle 


28 


The Dawn 


of about 15 degrees, but in the same general 
direction. 

The road on the right might merely lead to 
the river, while that on the left might lead any- 
where into the heart of the mountains of Done- 
gal. If the one on the right kept on up the river 
it must bring me home, while if it stopped at the 
river I would have to come back to this point. 
I hesitated, walked a little way to the right, came 
back, went a short distance on the other road. 
Finally I determined to go by the road shaping 
towards the river. It was not very far, as I 
could hear the roar of the fall in ‘‘The Nather.” 

If the road went up stream, I would go as far 
as it would take me, and trust to luck. 

I had actually walked a few paces when I 
heard a little sob coming out of the darkness, 
and I stopped as if shot. It sounded like the 
sob of a little child in a troubled sleep. 

It was repeated, and actually seemed to come 
from the ground at my feet. My hair began to 
rise slowly, till it was straight up, as if impelled 
by a current of “static electricity.” 

Here, then, was to occur my first experience 
with a ghost, and a cowardly ghost at that, to 
scare a little boy, who was so far away from 
home, and scared enough before. But pshaw! 
who ever heard of a baby being a ghost? Babies 
never become ghosts; they become angels; their 
little souls are too pure, too recently away from 
God, to be tainted enough by sin, or wrong, to 


JuLA Baby 


29 


be compelled to wander in the still watches of 
the pitiless night, in expiation of a crime they 
were incapable of committing. 

“Mamma \” came the pettish voice of a petted 
child. “Baby want 00, mamma! Baby told! 
Oh ! mamma !” 

When that little treble came out of the dark- 
ness, it dispelled it. There is no darkness when 
a baby’s voice is near. 

The sun may have long gone down in the 
nether world, the moon may have plowed be- 
hind a cloud, the stars may be buried beneath 
miles of plutonian clouds, but there is no dark- 
ness in the heart when a baby voice calls for 
protection. 

After hunting around for a while I found the 
little waif in a bunchy growth of red “oysers.” 
I picked it up. It cried out, “Oh ! tinker man, 
don’t hurt baby.” 

I told the little thing I was not a tinker man. 

“What is your name?” I said. 

“Baby! Jula Baby.” 

“Where do you live ?” 

“Home.” 

“How did you leave home?” 

“Beggar tole me way.” 

“Where is beggar now?” 

“Man beat beggar, beggar twoe me down, 
beggar go way, man go way, man fauley, tinker 
man.” 

So I inferred from her disjointed account that 


30 


The Dawn 


she had been stolen by tinkers ; that the “fauley,” 
or drunken husband of the kidnapper, had got 
frightened, and after beating his wife, compelled 
her to abandon the baby at the cross-roads. 

She (with the instinct, if not the heart, of a 
woman) had wrapped her old woolen shawl 
around it, so it was comparatively warm, ex- 
cept the hands and face, which were cold as ice. 

I thought again, of how my mother would be 
wild with grief and apprehension, and my heart 
bled for her and a big sob shook me. 

“Did tinker teal you, too? You cwy?” 

“No! I am only lost, but I will stay lost till I 
find a place for you, you poor little baby.’’ 

I thought of how the mother of this tender lit- 
tle flower would feel. My mother would feel 
awful bad, and I was a big boy of twelve. 

I vowed to stand by this little thing through 
thick or thin, till she was safe in the arms of her 
friends. 

I must first find some shelter from the chil- 
ling dew, but how or where am I to find it? 

I peer into the gloom, up and down all three 
roads. I thought I could distinguish a faint 
glimmer far down the road to the left. So, tak- 
ing the baby tightly in my arms, I started in 
that direction, right or wrong. It made no dif- 
ference, now. God had placed something infin- 
itely weaker than I was under my protection, 
and I willingly accepted the trust. 


JuLA Baby 


31 


She started to whimper, but I cooed to her, 
and in baby talk tried to reassure her. 

When she called for mamma, I told her that 
I was taking her home to mamma; and she 
seemed satisfied. 

After a while the tired little curly head began 
to bob and roll from side to side on my arm, 
and between the nods and blinks she said 
sleepily : 

“Oo do boy, Jula Baby vove 00, 00 take baby 
home to mamma,” and the little head gave a 
final roll against my breast, and she was fast 
asleep. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“OWNEY BEG.’' 

I trudged on for over a mile, the light in the 
distance growing brighter as I got closer to it. 
When I got near enough to it finally to see what 
it was, my heart went down like a stone, and 
my hopes were dashed in a moment, as it turned 
out to be merely a crude danger signal, placed 
there to mark a break in a little bridge ; nothing, 
in fact, but a forked stick, stuck in the hole, and 
a home-made lantern swinging from one of the 
prongs. 

I was tired out from the dead weight of that 
limp but healthy baby, and my arms being so un- 
accustomed to that kind of exercise, or rather, 
lack of exercise, that my arm was asleep, as the 
blood could not circulate where her head was 
across my left arm. 

I sat down on a heathery knowe, on the road- 
side; I was too proud to cry now, however, as I 
was a man, protecting somebody’s baby. 

I let her slip gently down on my lap, so that 
I could slap my arm a bit to get the blood started 
again. 

I had no intention of giving up my quest, or 
allowing myself to get sleepy; I would stay 
awake till morning, if necessary. 

32 


OwNEY Beg 


33 


I thought it mighty strange that nobody came 
along that road after us, on the Harvest Fair 
night, too, when every road of any consequence, 
or leading to any place where men lived, would 
be sure to have somebody on their way home 
coming along it. So this surely must be an un- 
frequented road. 

When I had rested awhile, I pushed on, hop- 
ing to find some habitation soon. 

By this time the first black pall of night had 
been succeeded by the grayer, clearer darkness 
of a Harvest midnight, which must be near, as it 
seems ages, instead of hours, since I started out. 
I could distinguish objects within a narrow 
radius now. 

On the left, as far as I could pierce the gloom, 
was the virgin moor, covered with heather, 
dotted here and there with patches of the white 
topped bog cotton, or Canawan, while on the 
right was acres and acres of clamped turf, which 
in all probability extended for miles, away up 
the valley and the mountain side, but not a sign 
of a house or habitation anywhere. 

Weary of heart, and foot, and eye, I trudged 
on and on, till at last the road came to an abrupt 
end, in the very middle of the bog, and foot- 
paths, only, radiated from it in all directions, 
and hundreds of large stacks of turf were here, 
brought so far by asses and creels, to where they 
would be accessible to horses and crates all win- 
ter. 


34 


The Dawn 


The best kept roads in all the world are in 
Ireland, and as a consequence it is easy to be 
deceived in roads like this. Here was a road 
that was merely an outlet for the turf, yet it was 
as well macadamized as any other road, and 
yon hole in the little bridge would be repaired 
tomorrow, or the contractor would have to pay 
a heavy fine; so it was in better condition than 
90 per cent, of the streets of Chicago, where the 
contractor is above the law, and master of those 
who are supposed to enforce it, and yet there 
was not a house within a mile of this mountain 
road. 

I sat down again, this time on a mossy bank, 
where the succulent tops of the sorrel grew in 
profusion. I pulled a handful of the soft, juicy 
stalks and ate them, and the pleasantly tart 
juice quenched my thirst, bog water being out 
of the question for two reasons, first, because it 
is dark and muddy, and tastes of the turf, but 
above all things, because “mankeepers” abound 
in the bog holes, the mankeeper being the only 
branch of the reptile family to be found in Ire- 
land, it is not in good repute. It is a small 
species of lizard, about the size of the chame- 
leon, only a little heavier built. 

When I sat there awhile I thought I could 
hear the gentle ripple of wavelets, as if beating 
on a pebbly shore, and I knew I must be near 
one of those mountain loughs that abound in 
the mountains of Donegal. 


OwNEY Beg 


35 


Through the still air, and apparently out of 
the ripples of the waves, came a sweet tinkle, as 
from a tiny but fine toned triangle; then the 
turkey-gobble like sound of a clarionet being 
put through the preliminaries that musicians 
love to indulge in before starting to play, then, 
as if started by the baton of a band-master, every 
instrument from which music has been produced 
since man invented the harmonious blending of 
sound, started up. The waves began to in- 
crease, till they were lashed into fury, and as 
they boomed, and crashed, like the sea waves 
beating against a cliff, the music rose with them, 
and the most wonderful medley of sound that 
ever fell on mortal ear swelled and died, and 
swelled again, and the earth seemed to tremble 
beneath me, and loud detonations as of thunder 
came to my ear, but they seemed to be confined 
to one spot, and though I could hear the wind 
howl, and shriek so near, there was not a breath 
of air stirring around me, and the music swelled 
above the noise of the thunder and the wind, and 
the roaring waves. 

Between the lulls of the storm, every air and 
waltz and jig, or symphony, that was ever writ- 
ten, and many that the greatest masters could 
not reproduce, laughed, and trilled, and lilted, 
and swelled, and rippled. Now it was the mighty 
clash of war, now the dreamy rhythm of the 
seductive waltz, again the pleading sweetness of 
love, then passion, and lust, and murder. 


36 


The Dawn 


The music had been low, and sweet, and 
dreamy for a while, and I noticed that the ma- 
jority of the sound-producing instruments were 
strange to my ear ; there were certainly no such 
instruments in Ireland; then where did they 
come from? to this out-of-the-way place, to 
sound so unnatural to an ear tuned to Irish in- 
struments only. 

I have heard some of them since, in Switzer- 
land, in the Alpine villages, in Tangiers, in Fez, 
in Cairo, in Asiatic Turkey, and at “The Colum- 
bian Exposition” at Chicago, but never, since or 
before, in Ireland ; but how that strange medley 
of sound got into the rippling waves and on the 
wings of the gentle breezes into the storm and 
fury, and sullen roar of the waves of that lough, 
in that peaceful valley, I was at a loss to know. 

God of Heaven! what is that? There had 
been only an occasional tinkle from the triangle, 
or a clash and clang from the cymbals for a few 
seconds, when all at once the storm grew more 
furious than ever, and hell seemed to open and 
let out its roaring horrors, the human voice, high 
pitched, as if in anger and anguish, shrieked 
piteously and pleadingly for succor and mercy. 
A deep, deep thunderous roar, which silenced or 
subdued all other noises, as if all the lower notes 
were being rasped, or blown, or pounded, on 
gigantic instruments, all at once, by a myriad of 
huge devils, and as I heard it, I cowered, par- 


OwNEY Beg 


37 

alyzed with fear, and hugged the baby tightly, to 
protect her. 

It seemed to start far, far down beneath the 
bog, and in the center of hell. As it rose, it 
softened into the pangs of purgatory, into the 
pains of earth ; and going up, up, into the clouds, 
it began to sweeten as it blended with the upper 
atmosphere, info that soul stirring quaver on a 
church organ, when you can imagine the rustle 
of angeFs wings ; then into the eternal sweetness 
of heaven, and it died out, with a little sweet tin- 
kle, as of an Aeolian harp, on the gate of heaven. 
And all was still. And through it all the baby 
slept. 

I wondered how anybody could sleep when 
all those instruments were playing their sweet- 
est, saddest, merriest, dreamiest, fiercest, and 
most diabolical music, and I stooped down to see 
if she were dead. When I got close enough to 
her face to see it in the gloom, she smiled a 
sweet little roguish dimpled smile, as if to re- 
assure me that she had heard the music at its 
sweetest, and liked it. 

The stillness was so intense, after that awful 
note, that even the movement of the atmosphere 
seemed to stop, and coma to succeed movement 
in all things but us, the baby and me. 

I could hear my own heart beat and surge, 
like the panting pulsations of a huge steam- 
engine, suddenly stopped for a minute, in the 
middle of its wild flight, and, madly anxious to 


38 


The Dawn 


be freed from restraint, quivering with excite- 
ment, as I was with fear. And the baby’s gentle, 
regular breathing, as her healthy little breast 
rose and fell in the rhythmic regularity of nor- 
mal infantile repose. 

Music again! but human, thank God! And 
as that Promethean sound greeted my ear, I al- 
most bounded to my feet, waking the baby as I 
got up. The Irish washerwoman, whistled as 
only an Irishman can whistle it, came rolling and 
rollicking from between the lips of somebody 
among the clamps of turf, and I knew my 
trouble was nearly over. Nearer and nearer, 
through the clamps, it came, but pshaw! it 
stopped short, in the very middle of a slur. 

Presently a light is struck, and by the flying 
sparks I knew that he was lighting his pipe, 
newly filled with fresh tobacco, which, swelling 
as it burned, the freshening wind caught it from 
the mouth of the pipe and scattered it in a 
shower of sparks. 

I yelled at the top of my voice, and an answer- 
ing shout came back. And in a few minutes a 
man’s form took shape out of the gloom. 

He spoke in a voice that the hard mountain 
breezes had taken all the finer tones from, and 
left it rough, but kindly. 

The baby, unused to voices like his, clung to 
me with wild energy, and in her pleading little 
gentle voice said, “Don’t let tinker man take 
Jula Baby way gain, doo boy.” “No, dear,” I 


OwNEY Beg 


39 


answered, will not let any one harm you,” and 
she nestled closer, as if she felt secure. 

“What in Hiven’s name are ye childhre doin’ 
here, in the bog, at this hour?” he said. 

I told him that I had been left alone in Bally- 
shannon, and that in trying to get home, I was 
lost at a cross-roads in not knowing which road 
to take, and of how I found the deserted baby, 
and our experiences since. 

“Who are you?” he said. 

“My name is Durand,” I answered. 

“From Belleek?” 

“Yes.” 

“For the love o’ God.” 

Grasping my hand, he said, “Sure, it’s your 
father’s son is welcome an the mountain entirely. 
There isn’t a man, woman or child ayther, an all 
this mountain, that wooden’t get up and give ye 
their bed this night, or any other night. And 
who might the wee one be, I wondther?” I told 
him that I did not have the slightest idea, but 
that I was going to stick by her till I saw her 
safe. 

“Right ye are, me bye ; but I woodn’t expect 
anything else from one iv yer breed; ye are ter- 
rible welcome, anyway.” And taking the baby 
tenderly out of my arms, he started ahead of 
me, through the clamped turf. 

“I will take ye to the causey iv my house,” 
he said, “and me wife will take care iv ye, niver 
fear,” 


40 


The Dawn 


I wondered that the baby never whimpered 
when he took her in his arms. She appeared 
frightened when she heard his voice at first, but 
she had been awake only a couple of minutes, 
and may have been dreaming about the tinkers. 

I learned that night, for the first time, how the 
instincts of a baby tells it how to distinguish the 
difference between a man and a rascal. I have 
noticed since, that a baby and a dog have that 
instinct fully developed. 

“Ye are could, Alyana,” he cooed to the baby. 
“And hungry, too, al bate,” turning to me. 

The baby said, “Es, me told! me hungy! me 
want to doe beddie! me want mamma! Poor 
papa far way — fight back man !” 

“Be gob now! we have ye, me darlin*,” said 
he. “Ye are the wee dauther of Captain Darcy 
— divil a less — who is away in Africa, and sure 
it’s ‘Owney Gilfeather’ that’l see ye well tuck 
care of, if yer father did sind me to gaol for six 
months, for sure its himself is a fine man, an’ a 
dacint magisthrate. The ivedince agin me was 
sthrong; they had the still head an’ worm in 
coort, and he ony done his juty.” 

“So you are Owney Beg,” I said, “who makes 
the pautteen.” 

“Talk aisy, me bye,” he said, “the peelers may 
be lishtening in the clamps of turf now, an I 
think I was informed an, be a half witted beggar, 
yistherday, an they may be afther me, for all I 
know. Me brother-in-law, poor divil, has been 


OwNEY Beg 


41 


an the shaughran for the lasht six months, an 
the peelers barkin’ at his heels, he’s sleeping like 
a hare an the mountain, wherever he can, an fed 
be the people betchune here an Breecy Moun- 
tain. I was goin now to thry and learn where 
he is, whin I met ye’s.” 

“Well! here we are,” and pointing to a light a 
short distance ahead, he said, “Knock at the 
dure, and tell me wife I sint ye, and she’ll do the 
rest,” and turning down the mountain again, he 
went his way, after giving the baby into my 
arms again. 

I went up to the door and knocked. As soon 
as I did, the candle inside was extinguished, and 
in a minute the door opened, and a female voice, 
rough, but not unkindly, demanded, “who’s 
there.” I answered, “A little boy Owney Beg 
found astray in the bog, and he sent me up here 
for a shelter for the night.” 

“Owney Beg sent ye here, did he? Ye lyin’ 
scut, Owney Beg is foolish to send informin’ 
brats lak you around. I know you, so I do, an’ 
if ye don’t be off immejetly. I’ll scald ye, so I 
will.” 

I knew at once who she supposed I was, but 
as she had slammed the door, I could not explain 
to her who I was. 

A strolling beggar and his son, who was about 
my age, were supposed to be in the pay of the 
police, and were accused of having been the 


42 


The Dawn 


cause of many arrests for illicit distillation, 
hence my reception. 

I left the door, and going to the haystack, I 
made a bed for the baby on the dash, which hap- 
pened to be cut low, by shaking a few layers of 
the hay up loose, and laid her in it, putting some 
more hay over her, to keep off the wind. She 
was so sleepy that she was sound asleep in a 
few minutes. The poor little thing was so gen- 
tle that she gave less trouble than any baby I 
had ever seen. 

I was so much surprised at the actions of 
Molly Gilfeather that I could not understand it 
at all. 

In Ireland the hospitality is so open and hon- 
est that even a beggar is never turned from any- 
body’s door. They do not entertain you to show 
you how nice they are, or for the purpose of let- 
ting you see the nice things they have, and then 
tear your character to flinders when you are 
gone ; they do it because they are a genial, kind- 
ly, open hearted people, and this hospitality to 
stranger and friend alike, is a custom as old as 
Ireland itself. So I surmised that there must 
be some other reason for her action, and I 
started in to investigate. 


CHAPTER V. 


“THE MOUNTAIN CABIN.” 

I remember this mountain farm house well; 
there is a swift mountain river, which runs 
around the hill — the south side of the hill. I ap- 
proached it from the north that night, but I was 
often up there to fish for the little mountain 
trout, brook trout they are called here in Amer- 
ica. 

Owney Gilfeather had about twenty acres of 
land, all under crops; he had ten or eleven head 
of cattle that were allowed to run over hundreds 
of acres of wild mountain, and he was fairly 
well off. The house was built, as all houses of 
its class are built. It was one story high ; the 
roof was thatched, and it was cozy and warm. 
It had three rooms, the middle and larger room 
served as kitchen, dining room, parlor, pantry 
and ball-room, on occasion. At one end was the 
big open fireplace. Two hobs came out about 
two feet from the back wall, a long beam of bog 
oak is laid across from hob to hob, and the stone- 
work of the chimney is started there. As the 
hobs are seven or eight feet apart, the stone- 
work of the chimney slopes inward, as it rises, 
and at the point where it pierces the roof, the 
inside of the chimney is about eighteen inches 
square, and keeps that width to the top, two or 
43 


44 


The Dawn 


three feet above the roof. The peculiar con- 
struction of the chimney gives it a draught like 
a furnace, and the turf must be wet and poor, 
indeed, that is not sucked into glowing coals 
when the air gets heated above. 

At the opposite end of this room is what is 
known as a dresser. To describe it, the easiest 
way is to commence above, where a sideboard 
leaves off, and carry it at least three feet higher. 
That part is made up of shelves that go clear 
across. A rail runs across between each shelf, 
and the plates are put in, standing up, and lean- 
ing slightly outwards, supported by the rail; 
then, as the plates overlap each other, there may 
be two or three dozen on a shelf, with only a 
new moon of each showing. The saucers are 
put up the same way, and the big side dishes 
on the top shelf. The cups, bowls, mugs and 
other hollow ware are nested on the table part. 
As the average Irishwoman is pretty, and she 
knows it bydnstinct, she does not need a looking 
glass in the front of each piece of furniture for. 
purposes of research, so there is no glass in or 
near the dresser. On the ends are hooks, on 
which are hung and other tin ves- 

sels. The dresser is scrubbed with fine sand till 
it is as white as snow, and the tins shine like 
burnished silver. The other furniture of this 
room consists of tables, chairs, stools, forms, 
and usually a settle bed, which is a seat by day 
and a bed at night, where necessary. 


The Mountain Cabin 


45 


They are not overblessed with windows, as 
it is never too cold to keep the doors open in 
daytime, except very seldom, and they do not 
need much glass. There is a bedroom, usually 
large enough to play basket ball in, at each end. 
They are not so cramped as you would suppose, 
because of the fact of there being only three 
rooms. In each bedroom there are sometimes 
three large beds, but each bed is a private sleep- 
ing compartment in itself, being both draped 
and curtained, so there is far more privacy 
among the family than there is in that barbarous 
institution — a sleeping car — among strangers. 

I went to the back of the house, and looked 
through the only window in the middle room, 
and beheld a peculiar, but withal, a wholesome 
sight. 

Standing on the hearthstone, before a big 
glowing fire, was a massive “breadiron,” against 
which was supported the finest “bonnock^’ of oat 
bread I had ever seen. It was about thirty 
inches square, and about three-eighths of an 
inch thick, and I longed to become the tomb for 
about 144 square inches of it. It was just be- 
ginning to show that tantalizing brown shade 
when it is the most toothsome, if your teeth are 
sharp enough, or your jaws can show a pressure 
of 1,000 pounds back of each canine tooth; if not, 
you had better get an axe, or taboo bonnocks. 

A saucepan, with a saucer on top for a cover, 
was nested into a form bruised into a granu- 


46 


The Dawn 


lated coal; the saucer rose and fell, lifted and 
dropped again, by the pulsating steam trying to 
escape. As little puffs of it got out, it was 
wafted to my appreciative nose in an aroma of 
drawing tea, that I can smell yet. 

We get no tea in America. We get spiral 
leaves and other twisted things, and little sticks, 
but no tea. 

As that maddening aroma came to me through 
that broken pane, I almost gasped, and the 
juices of appreciation began to gather around 
my gums, for I was tired, and cold and hungry. 

If you want to get a cup of tea “as is tea,” go 
to Ireland, get an old woman to make some in a 
little skillet, covered with a saucer, on some 
bruised coals, on a wide hearthstone, in a three 
room mountain house, on the mountains of 
Donegal, in the province of Ulster, Ireland, and 
you will go back again next year to get some 
more. 

We, in America, either boil or steep our tea, 
we never draw it. When we boil it, we get the 
tannin and North America gets the aroma. In 
Ireland they draw it, and draw the soul out of 
the leaves, leaving the tannin behind — where it 
belongs. This soul, that aroma and the spirit of 
all that is good in the soil and the atmosphere of 
China and Japan, is put in a cup with a wee bit 
of sugar end some real cow’s milk and drank by 
those Irish mountaineers, and Irish wit, spark- 
ling and unpremeditated, is the inevitable result. 


The Mountain Cabin 


47 


Molly was busying herself in many ways pre- 
paring a feast she dare not set before her frugal 
husband, but this feast was for another man, and 
in Ireland at that. 

I noticed that a big bottle, presumably 
“poteen,’^ stood on the table, surrounded by a 
number of cubes of lump sugar, and a little 
saucer of caraway seeds and a lump of butter. 
So I inferred that ‘‘scaultheen” was on the bill 
of fare, in this midnight revel. 

The bonnock and the skillet were what my 
eyes, nose and mouth, and the desires of each, 
were focussed on. 

But who was that big, good natured looking 
man in the corner by the hob? 

He looked to be between twenty-seven and 
thirty years old, with the build of an athlete, 
and bubbling all over with good humor, his good 
natured sayings must be very interesting, as well 
as comical, as Molly stopped every now and then 
to listen, and as some droll climax was reached, 
she laughed boisterously, and playfully slapped 
him on the cheek. He was dressed in corduroy 
trousers and vest, and wore a bauneen under his 
vest; I could see that, as it came a couple of 
inches below the vest. A frieze coat and a 
peaked cap completed his raiment. 

As I watched the pair of them, a gladsome 
sound came up the hill, and I knew that Owney 
Beg was coming back, and that the tidings he 
had gleaned of his brother-in-law must have 


48 


The Dawn 


been good, as he whistled with all of the power 
of lung and lip, “Miss McLeod’s Reel,” as only 
Owney Beg could whistle it, but, the feast would 
be spoiled. 

Just then they heard it, too, and a grand sub- 
ject for a kinetoscope to work on was let loose 
in that cabin in a minute. Molly jumped for the 
bonnock and slipped it under the settle bed, and 
almost with the same action hung up the bread- 
iron on the nail, where it belonged, on the 
“brace;” she then plunged the bottle of poteen 
into the cusheen, over the turf corner, put the 
tea under a basket, and covered all with a 
shower of corn sacks to choke off that all per- 
vading aroma. Then, brushing the moulded 
forms of the skillets, which were there, in the 
granulated coals, in intaglio, into the graes- 
chugh, with the besom, after which she put a few 
fresh turf on the fire, to darken it, and sat down, 
with her back to the hob, in an extemporaneous 
doze to await her husband, as any dutiful wife 
should. 

The man had just made the most remarkable 
move I ever saw. He opened the two doors of 
the “cubbert,” under the dresser, and dived in 
there, headforemost, with a dexterity that would 
cause “Humpty Dumpty” to envy him for life. 
He pulled the doors after him, and somnolence 
reigned supreme. Owney knocked several times 
before Molly “woke up.” She opened the door 


The Mountain Cabin 


49 


and greeted him in a kindly manner that must 
have aroused the other man. 

“Are ye alone, Alyana?’' she said. 

“Who do you think Fd hev wid me, at this 
hour?’’ 

“I feared the polis would get you, as ‘Mickey 
the Begger’s’ pryin’ son was here, the night, but 
I chased him — bad luck to his breed.” 

“I suppose the other poor childhre are asleep.” 

“What other childhre, Owney dear?” 

“The wee Durand boy, and the baby he found 
by the roadside.” 

“There was only a boy here, and he towld me 
that you sint him here, but I didn’t believe him.” 

“Oh, Molly darlint! You sent away a son of 
the best man in Ireland, and the wee baby of 
Captain Darcy, that was stolen by tinkers, and 
left on the roadside to die, till the boy found her, 
and carried her all the way from ‘Patten’s 
Cross’ to the foot o’ the hill.” 

“Mother of God!” she gasped, dropping gn 
her knees, “purtect thim this night, an the 
mountain.” 

As she uttered the fervent prayer, the doors 
of the “cubbert” burst outwards, and the man 
who was concealed there crawled to his feet, and 
grasped the outstretched hand of Owney Beg. 

“Ned ma Bauchal! I am terrible glad to see 
ye; and where have you been for the last three 
months ?” 

“Running the mountain like a hare, Owney, 


The Dawn 


50 

and like an invadin’ army, feedin’ an the people.” 

“Are ye not affraid to be here the night, Ned?” 

“Not afther what ye jist sed, Owney.” 

“If Captain Darcy’s wee baby is lost, ivery 
polisman in Fermanagh and Donegal will be 
lookin’ for her, and you and me will be forgot, 
for wanst. I am awful sorry that the poor wee 
childther are out an the mountain, and if they 
are widin three mile iv here, and alive. I’ll find 
thim, before morning.” 

As I did not want the good-natured big fellow 
to go out on a wild-goose chase with an empty 
stomach I set up a lusty haloo. 


CHAPTER VI. 


“NEDDY BAWN.” 

So this was Neddy Bawn, Molly’s poor 
Shaughran brother, hunted for months, over 
mountain and glen, compelled to sleep in the 
heather, for the awful crime of saving the life of 
a policeman without a heart. 

The history of the crime, as given later, by 
Owney Beg, ran thus : 

Neddy and some friends were making a run 
in a big cave on the banks of Lough Scollivan. 
The still was in full blast, doublin. The air was 
suddenly pierced with the cry of “Mad dog!” 
from the lookout on a rocky ledge above, and 
they knew that the police were upon them. 
Carrying the still-head and worm, and as much 
of the crude manufactured spirits as they could 
transport, to a boat at the mouth of the cave, 
they jumped aboard and started to row across 
the lough. 

Before they could get away, a big, rawboned 
policeman, nicknamed “Faney the Ferret,” 
dashed up to his waist in the water, grasping the 
gunwale of the boat; but he was not strong 
enough to hold it against the efforts of six strong 
men to get away; he hung on, however, like a 
bulldog, and was towed out into the lough, 
where a hundred feet of water was beneath him. 


52 


The Dawn 


One of the young- fellows, who was not as sober 
as he might be, lifted an oar and aimed a stroke 
at the policeman’s knuckles, to break his hold, 
which he actually did, as far as one hand was 
concerned, and there he was, dangling into eter- 
nity. As the young fellow was about to do the 
same to his other hand, ‘‘Neddy Bawn” came to 
his rescue, and, catching him by both hands, held 
him till they reached the shallow water on the 
“Cranogue” side of the lough, where he pushed 
him off into water that came little above his 
knees, then turning out into deep water, they 
escaped. 

Faney swore out a warrant for the arrest of 
“Neddy Bawn,” the only member of the boat’s 
crew that he knew, charging him with “illicit 
distillation” and felonious assault on a police- 
man while in the execution of his duty. 

A reward of £50-0-0 was offered for the ar- 
rest of the culprit, and his description was posted 
on every gate-post in the county. It read thus : 

Description of Edward McGarrigle, common- 
ly called (Neddy Bawn), a native of the parish 
of “Breecy,” Baroney of “Derahillew,” who is 
charged, etc. : Blue eyes, regular nose, fair com- 
plexion, athletic build, about five feet eleven 
inches in height, has a dimple in each cheek, 
which are very plainly in evidence when he 
laughs, which he does on slight provocation. 
When last seen, he was* dressed in corduroy 
trousers and vest, and a frieze coat, high-low 


Neddy Bawn 


53 


boots and a peaked cap, which he wears well 
back on his head, showing a ring of blond curls 
on his forehead ; usually wears a white bauneen, 
showing about two inches below his vest. 

The above reward will be paid for information 
that will lead to his arrest. 

Neddy went through some strenuous expe- 
riences with the police and the gaugers, and as 
he told me one of them, one day, while I was 
fishing for mountain trout in the river I men- 
tioned, near his brother-in-law’s farm, I will 
digress from my story to relate it as he related 
it to me. My father was with me, and we had a 
fine day’s fishing. When we were preparing to 
go home, Neddy came down, and my father in- 
duced him to tell the story, which runs thus : 

‘T run off about 50 gallons iv as good stuff 
as iver flowed from a worm or chated the Queen, 
and I must sell it to pay the rint, cornin’ due in 
another month, so I takes a tin gallon kag to 
‘Ballyshanny’ — no mather how — and sould it. 
Whin I was lavin’ the town, I meets the gauger 
in the back sthreet. He called me aside and, 
dhrawing my attintion to the fact that he knew 
I sould it, but I had given him the slip. I 
laughed at him and tould him that I intended to 
bring in another kag in a few days, as I was in 
need of the money. 

“ *Yon will like the divil,’ he says; T will keep 
my eye peeled,’ he says, says he. 

“A couple of days aftherward, an ould beggar 


54 


The Dawn 


that we suspicioned of informin’ an us, was 
bangin’ around, as I started to fill a crate of turf 
to take to town an’ sell; whin it was half full I 
jist openly put a kag in the middle of the crate, 
and piled turf on top of it till the crate was full. 
I thin cribbened it, and tied a feed of grass, cov- 
ered wid an ould sack on top, and backed in the 
ould sorrel mare and started to town. I noticed 
that ould Paddy Dhu started out briskly ahead 
of my cart, wid his bag an his back, and his 
stick in his fist. 

“As he cud take short cuts accross the moun- 
tain and the bogs, through the woods and 
accross Tom Connolly’s demesne at Cliff, down 
the back avenue at Patterson’s, and out an the 
road again at the big facthry in the Nather, he 
cud be in Ballyshanny long afore me, I med up 
me mind to fool him, so whin I got to the 
Crucked Bridge I jist waited for a crate of turf 
to overtake me. Bye and bye Mick McCownley 
kem along wid a crate that lucked jist like mine. 
I tould him w^at I had in the crate, and about 
the gauger bein’ an the luckout for me, and 
about Paddy Dhu hurryin’ ahead to inform an 
me. So there and thin we changed horses and 
the name plates an the carts. I tuck Mick’s 
cart an he tuck mine. I tould him where to de- 
liver my “turf” and I would sell his. 

“We kept togither all the way to town, and 
sure enough we met the gauger. He walked 
up to me smilen and sed he was glad I kem to 


Neddy Bawn 


55 


town the day, as he was out of turf entirely. I 
tould him that I had me crate promised, but he 
cud buy Mick McCownley’s. 

“‘I don’t want Mick McCownley’s,’ he sed; 
‘the last crate I got from him were new and not 
well “sasoned.” And we had the divil of a time 
gettin’ thim to burn. Your turf, now, are al- 
ways well “sasoned,” he says, says he. And 
you can bring in another crate the day, as it’s 
early yit.’ 

“Mick had been going an all this time and had 
turned up the back sthreet, but I wanted to give 
him plenty of time to get away. 

“The gauger could have ‘sazed’ me crate, but 
he jist wanted to have all the fun he could, and 
as I was havin’ some meself, I jist haggled about 
the price as long as I could. I stud out for three 
and sixpence, and he stud at three shillins ; finally 
we compromised at three and thruppence, and I 
tuck thim to his yard and dumped thim, but 
there was no kag, and he was as mad as a hornet. 

“He swore and stamped around and sed he’d 
give me six months in Lifford before long. 

“ ‘You will whin you ketch me,’ I sed, says I. 

“ ‘If you bring in a dhrap widin’ the nixt three 
months,’ he says, says he, ‘I’ll ketch you if I hev 
to lave all ither bisiness go to the dogs.’ 

“I was feelin’ a little an the banther, so I says, 
says I, ‘I’ll sell two twinty gallon kags widin’ 
tin days.’ 


5 ^ 


The Dawn 


“ ‘Fll bate you a tin pound note you won’t/ 
says he. 

“ ‘Done wid you/ says I, and we put up our 
I. O. U.’s wid a publican for the money. 

“Well, to make a long story short, I kem into 
town about a week afther, wid a funeral, and we 
met the gauger at the edge o’ town. He axed 
me who was dead, and I tould him a pair o’ twins 
— frinds o’ mine. So he sed he was sorry for 
our thrubble, and rode out of town. 

“We wint an, and whin we kem to the place 
I was to deliver the stuff, we jist tuck the coffin 
aff the shouldthers of the four min who were 
carryin’ it, and tuck it in; whin we opened it, 
there war the twins — two twinty gallon kags. 

“We brough the impty coffin back and found 
the gauger. We showed him the impty coffin 
and tould him the twins had come to life and 
escaped. 

“He jist turned green wid vinim and turned 
an his heel, and wint away, and I hevn’t heard a 
word about the money we bate since. Of coorse 
nayther of us could prove that we won or lost. 
He cudn’t prove that I didn’t sell the stuff, and 
I dassent prove that I did, so the mather rests 
there.” 


CHAPTER VIL 


“THE BANQUET”— SONG AND STORY. 

When they heard my voice, all three rushed 
out together. I had gathered the baby into my 
arms again, as gently as possible, so as not to 
wake her. 

Molly came swiftly forward, and lifted the lit- 
tle baby out of my arms, as only a woman can 
when handling a sleeping child; she took the 
little one into the light, when an exclamation of 
delighted surprise escaped from all of us at once. 

“Oh! the lovely little angel,” said Molly, as 
she pressed a light but fervent kiss on the little 
plump, pink cheek. “Did iver anywan see sich 
a purty wee baby?” and I was proud of my find, 
myself, and I repeated a little school rhyme, 
which seemed to suit the occasion, 

“Loosers, lossers, finders, getters, keepers.” 

“Sthranger things than that come thrue, be- 
fore now,” said Molly, “but whisht now! or 
yiz’l wake the purty wee bird.” 

Owney had thrown an armful of “bog fir” on 
the fire, and in a minute that room was lit up like 
a fairy palace, the plates on the shelves glittered, 
and the burnished tins scintillated starry rays 
everywhere through the room, and that golden 
head and those clear little pink cheeks brought 
57 


The Dawn 


58 

a message from heaven into that childless home, 
and Molly's cheeks were wet with tears, for 
some reason, as she held that baby in her lap 
and looked on the dear little innocent face. 

The lips were like little rosebuds — opening — 
showing the two rows of little pearly teeth with^ 
in; one of the teeth was out, in front, evidently 
from a fall, as she was far too young to lose it 
naturally, being not over three years old. 

I was very hungry, and I had just formulated 
a plan to get at that “bonnock.” 

I knew that superstition goes a long ways 
among mountain folk, who are close to nature, 
but don’t understand its mysteries. I thought I 
would take a rise out of them, anyway, so, turn- 
ing to Owney, I asked him if he had ever heard 
any strange, weird music on the mountain. 

“Not an the mountain,” he said, ‘T hard it 
wanst, down be Columbkill’s lough, but al niver 
hear it again. Why do you ax?” he continued. 

“Oh! just because I heard the most wonderful 
music I have ever heard, down there where you 
found us ; I could hear the rippling of waves 
first, and then there burst forth the orchestra of 
heaven or hell, I don’t know which, and out of 
the winds came a whispering voice, that told me 
I would only have to wish for things, in future, 
and they would be mine. I must go through 
certain forms, though, before my wish can be ef- 
fective.” 

Owney crossed himself and said, “I believe 


The Banquet 


59 


you, me bye. I would believe anything that 
would occur whin that music is playin’.” 

“Have you any book in the house with Latin 
in it?” I asked. 

“Sure, there is plinty of Latin in the prayer 
books,” he said. 

“I don’t want a prayer book,” I said. Using 
a prayer book for my purpose would be a sacri- 
lege that I was not prepared to assume, so I 
asked him if there was any other book that con- 
tained it. As nearly every one in Ireland has 
learned more or less Latin, he hunted around, 
and in a few minutes came out of the bedroom. 
He had a musty volume in his hand, and hand- 
ing it to me, said : 

“Here is my ould Latin grammar; may’be 
that’l do.” 

“The very thing!” I said; “the very thing!” 

I turned over a few pages, and turning to the 
three of them, I solemnly said, “Hus — h !” 

Then, as solemnly, conjugating the verb “eat,” 
I pointed in a mysterious manner under the set- 
tle-bed, and exclaimed, “Traho.” Owney got on 
his knees, and approaching the settle-bed, 
reached his hand slowly under it, and put it on 
the hot bonnock. He jumped back, exclaiming, 
“Mother iv marcy! purtect me, the divil him- 
silf is there.” 

“Traho!” I exclaimed, stamping my foot, 
“Traho! Anno Mundi! Anno Domini!” 

And he reached out again, and drew forth the 


6o 


The Dawn 


bonnock. I read some more, and pointing to 
the creel, he drew forth the skillet, and as he 
lifted the sacks off it, all the confined aroma that 
I had lost floated clear up my nostrils at once. 
I kept pointing rapidly, here and there, and he 
produced the other luxuries, one at a time. 
When I had all that the larder afforded on the 
table, I motioned to them all to get on their 
knees, and we said a little prayer, at my dicta- 
tion. They thought it was to lay the divil, which 
I must have invoked. I knew it was “grace be- 
fore meat.’’ 

Molly had been busying herself, in the mean- 
time, and the kettle that “Watt” had drawn his 
inspiration from was acting tamely, in compari- 
son to the snorting utensil she had on that 
“crook.” 

I had not noticed that a long, thin iron rod 
was stretched clear across the brace. It was 
passed through the eye sockets of two dozen of 
those great big fat mackerel from “Donegal 
Bay.” There were big nails driven into the 
brace, at intervals, to support it, and keep it 
from sagging. 

When Owney got up off his knees, he 
reached up, and sliding four of the mackerel off 
the rod, he handed them to Molly, who pro- 
ceeded to get them ready for the broiler. 

Neddy got the tongs, and proceeded to 
scrub them with the sand rag, after which he 
took out some glowing coals and, making a bed 


The Banquet 


6i 


of them on the hearthstone, laid the tongs, par- 
tially open, stretched on them. By the time 
Molly had the mackerel prepared, the tongs 
were hot. She put the mackerel on this broiler, 
which Adam invented, and on which no man 
holds the patent. 

If there is any place, or thing, on which to 
broil mackerel, that can produce the delicious 
effect, better than a clean pair of tongs, over a 
clear bed of turf coals, that thing is another pair 
of tongs, and that place, another bed of clear 
turf coals. 

Talk about your gas ranges, cook stoves, and 
patent broilers, they are pretty and up-to-date, 
but take the tongs and the turf coals for effect. 

Broil on the gas range, and your fish tastes 
of the gas house, and the meter; do it over the 
coals, in a cook stove, and your viands smell of 
the “stoke hole” on a whaler — but on the tongs, 
naboklesh !* 

The baby, woke up, about the time all was 
ready, and, as if anticipating it, Molly had, with 
her woman’s thoughtfulness, prepared a bowl 
of delicious “pinada” — the baby’s manna. 

Knowing that the toothsome dainty can be 
made only from the white yeast bread of the 
baker, Owney asked his wife where on earth she 
got it. 

“God sint it, avic, knowing that one of his 


♦“Nuff said,” 


62 


The Dawn 


wee angels wood be here, to ‘cailie’ wid us, the 
night.” And he had seen so many mysterious 
things happen before his eyes, that he never 
questioned her veracity. 

It was a pathetic scene, that — Molly and the 
baby. 

She took the little soft, pink hands and kissed 
them, put her weather-beaten face down to the 
little plump cheek, kissed the rosebud lips, as 
softly as a falling feather, but with all the long- 
ing and tenderness of a childless heart in it. 

After we had regaled ourselves, and the dishes 
had been cleared away, Owney asked me what 
was my first name. I told him that my name 
was James. 

“Molly,” he said, “we are in for a thrate, this 
night. Fm tould that this bi is a fine ‘pote,’ en- 
tirely, so I am ; and sings his songs like a lark, 
so he does.” I said I was not much of a poet, 
but when a boy of my age could get up a little 
rhyme, it was heralded all over that another 
Milton had arisen, and he was credited with be- 
ing an infant prodigy, and several things that 
he falls far short of, particularly in a country 
place, where a little goes a long way. 

“You will give us some of your songs, won’t 
you now,” he pleaded. 

“If you will tell me the meaning of the music 
I heard at ‘St. Columbkill’s Lough’ I will,” I 
said. 


The Banquet 63 

“In throth ! al tell you all I know about it," he 
said, “and that’s little." 

“I want to hear your song, though, while the 
‘pothrey’ is in me sowl ; Scaultheen fills a man’s 
heart wid pothrey, if taken in rasonable doses, 
while larger quantities fills his sowl wid the idees 
and instincts iv the divil," he solemnly declared. 

After telling them that since I was a baby I 
loved to sit and watch the River Erne in all its 
moods, tragic and sublime, and listen to its 
music, its songs without words, and its myste- 
rious whisperings, and the little song I sung for 
them was one I wrote one evening after listening 
to the roaring of the flood. The words seemed 
to come to me unsolicited and my little boyish 
fancies seemed to catch them out of the ripples 
and roars of that lovely stream, and here it is : 

THE ERNE. 

From its source in hilly Cavan starts a brooklet 
gently lave’n 

Its pebbly banks in murmurs sweet and low, 
Gently tugging at the bushes, dipping blossoms 
of the rushes 

As its mild, rippling waves ebb and flow. 
Advancing, still advancing, murmuring, singing, 
wavelets dancing 

To the town of Enniskillen, quaint and old. 


64 The Dawn 

Fairest town of any nation, beauty spot of all 
creation, 

Home of the Dragoons brave and bold. 

Now it widens and grows wild and casts its foam 
on Devnish Island, 

Where the round tower majestic stands on 
guard. 

Relic left of ages hoary, when Old Erin in her 
glory 

Had her liberty, her language and her bard; 

Now its width and depth and motion imitates 
the restless ocean. 

And its green isles are girdled white with 
foam 

And its restless, surging billows whip the long 
and slender willows 

That fringe the sloping shores near my home. 

It again becomes a river, and the long reeds 
scarcely quiver. 

And the swans glide proudly to and fro. 

And the pretty girls boating pluck the water- 
lilies floating 

On its mild, limpid surface as they row; 

^Neath the trees and through the meadows, 
through the sunshine and the shadows. 

Where the nightingale sings sweet and clear, 

And the corncrake is calling to its mate as night 
is falling. 

And the village lights begin to appear. 



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The Banquet 65 

Now it tumbles o’er the shallows, where invad- 
ing Cornwallis 

Was so near annihilation by the soldiers of 
O^Neil; 

In childish awe I used to listen to that flood as 
it went hissin’ 

Onward, sunward, till it sounded like a wail. 
From Belleek to far Bundoran flows the noble 
River Erne 

In wild and gushing splendor to the sea, 

By the graveyard of Teetunny, by shady nooks 
and sunny. 

By the holy well beneath the hazel tree. 

In the wild and hilly '‘Nather” it seems new 
force to gather 

To rush on fiercely to the strand. 

Over ‘‘Cauthleen’s Fall” now dashing in its wild 
and wayward passion. 

Rudely snatching a last kiss from “Bouile- 
bond”; 

O’er the falls of ‘‘Ballyshannon” like the distant 
boom of cannon 

It rushes with a wild and sullen roar, 

In that last wild tumult — frantic — it gets lost 
in broad Atlantic, 

And its freshness is gone evermore. 

Even now, when little strands of gray are be- 
ginning to make their appearance on my 
temples, I can let my fancy stray back there, and 


66 


The Dawn 


imagine myself sitting on the low, grass covered 
bank of some secluded bay in Graffey, and hear 
the sound of the little rippling waves, as they 
bend the waving bulrushes to and fro, while 
my feet, grown small again, are dangling into 
those warm wavelets, as they creep up and 
down my bare shins, while I watch the cork, 
and expect the nibble of the perch ; with nothing 
but that to bother me, no other emotion in my 
heart but love for nature’s beauties, and my 
home ; or, while standing on “The Big Arch” of 
the bridge of Belleek, within the shadow of the 
immense main building of the pottery, I can see 
the grandest scene of rushing, whirling water on 
earth, boiling and roaring, tossing and foaming, 
swirling irresistibly round that big, appearing 
and disappearing rock, which juts out into the 
awful current, then dashing fiercely over “Tom’s 
Rock,” with the evident intention of pushing or 
rolling it into “The Frothyhole,” that maelstrom 
out of whose whirlpool nothing living was ever 
known to escape. 

History and song and story has much to say 
about it. It was known and admired, and feared, 
before Nero burned Rome. Love has been whis- 
pered, as it whispered. Tragedy has been en- 
acted to the sound of its angry roar. St. Patrick 
drank of its limpid purity, St. Bridget bathed her 
tired feet in it, down there beneath the shade 
of that old, old yew tree at “Hearnshaw,” and 
both have consecrated it with their touch. 


The Banquet 


67 


It was consecrated here, too, in another way. 
According to the old legend, when Cornwallis 
was sent to subdue Ulster, he met the soldiers of 
O’Neil, on the “Lack,” or ford, above the fall. 
The battle raged all day. Cornwallis was forced 
to retreat, O’Neil pursued, and they fought, up 
to their waists in the water of the ford, and 
night, only, put an end to the battle, but the 
invader was crushed, for the time, anyway. 

So it was consecrated by the blood of patriots, 
too. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


“THE VENGEANCE OF HEAVEN.” 

“Owney Beg’s” story of the music in the lough 
followed my song. It ran thus: 

When St. Columbkill was traveling and 
preaching over these parts, the pagan king had 
his hunting castle on the top of a high hill, which 
stood in the exact spot where the lough is now. 
He occupied this castle during the hunting sea- 
son only. The woods were full of game, large 
and small. The deer were numerous, and the 
pheasants, woodcock and all the other game 
fowl were plenty; then the moors were thick 
with hares. The big, white hare of “Breecy 
Mountain” came down here to feed, and when 
pursued went straight up the mountain for 
miles, and the sport was great. His entire court 
and retinue came with him on those annual 
visits, and the people were robbed to keep up 
the extravagance of his profligate court. When 
he needed to replenish his treasury, or his larder, 
the country was simply laid waste. 

One day he started on a great hunt, the whole 
court participating, the court beaters, the 
archers and javelin throwers, the huntsmen and 
the hounds were all in their respective places. 

The beaters raised a great white hare, the 

w 68 


The Vengeance of Heaven 69 

hounds taking up the scent, and the whole caval- 
cade was off. The hare, true to its natural in- 
stincts and because of its peculiar anatomical 
formation, started diagonally up the mountain — 
a hare cannot run down hill when pursued, be- 
cause its hind legs are much longer than those 
in front, but it can circle the hill with a slight 
inclination upward. For miles and miles it ran 
thus. It was ten miles from where it started to 
the mountaintop, but it circled the mountain 
several times, always getting nearer to the top. 
It must have covered twenty miles, for the dogs 
were tired out, and the horses panting and stag- 
gering, and apparently on the point of breaking 
down. The hare did not seem to be exerting 
itself unduly, but seemed to be merely playing 
with the dogs by just keeping out of danger and 
just in front of their noses. When one of them 
seemed to be on the point of grabbing it, it 
made one of those tantalizing wheels, that only 
a pursued hare can make, gaining a few yards 
each time. 

When the shades of evening were beginning 
to fall, the king being tired and his horse scarce- 
ly able to move, he called to some of his archers 
and ordered them to shoot the hare. Several 
of the archers drew their bows and the arrows 
sped straight to the mark. The hare rolled over 
and over, but getting up again sped on, ap- 
parently fresher than ever. The king frowned, 
and the archers wondered. They fired again, 


70 


The Dawn 


but with the same result. An old huntsman of 
the neighborhood approached the king and told 
him that they were pursuing “The Breecy 
Mountain Witch,” and that the only way she 
could be killed would be by an arrow tipped 
with silver. 

The king himself fitting a silver pointed 
arrow, which he had won in his younger days 
as a trophy of his prowess, took deliberate aim 
and fired. The arrow was seen to strike the 
hare in the hind leg, and she fell again. This 
time she was undoubtedly distressed, but she 
limped on on three legs. The dogs were per- 
ceptibly gaining on her now, as they raised their 
heads to bay their victorious note before the 
finish. A sod hut, with open door, came into 
view, a hundred yards ahead and, as the dogs 
stretched their necks to catch her, she ran into 
the open door and the dogs ran back, howling 
and terror-stricken, and no amount of urging or 
threats could induce them to advance another 
inch. They ran around in circles, the hair stand- 
ing straight on their necks, and when the hunts- 
men lashed them they whined and crawled at 
their feet, but would not budge towards the 
quarry. 

At last the king, beside himself with rage, 
snatched a javelin from a man beside him and, 
poising it in his hand ready for the throw or 
final thrust, rushed into the hut, and this is 
what he saw: 


The Vengeance of Heaven 71 

An old, old woman, with sunken jaws and 
toothless gums, with chin protruding and eyes 
of hell, stood there confronting him, and he, 
tyrant as he was, quailed at the sight. 

She pointed her long, bony finger at him, and 
in withering- accents chanted: 

King, tyrant, reveler, beware. 

You find a woman where you sought a hare; 
You’ll find a lough where your castle stands 
And hell for you and yours beneath its sands. 

And, with a mocking, cackling laugh she dis- 
appeared in a blue flame, and the king fell with 
a loud wailing cry of fear and agony. 

The flame seemed to parboil him to the bone, 
and he lay there, to all appearance, dead. 

When his bodyguard rushed in they found 
him lying there, prone upon the ground. When 
they carried him out into the air they found that 
the rigidity of death was in one side, while the 
other seemed to be in its normal condition. He 
was not dead, however, a more terrible fate 
awaited him. 

He recovered, but his right side was paralyzed 
forever. Although he never again participated 
in the hunt, he made up for it in the increased 
profligacy of his court, and his cruelty to his 
subjects increased an hundred fold. He seemed 
to take a greater delight in the sufferings and 
tortures of the people, and he ground them 
down without mercy. 


72 


The Dawn 


He heard of the preaching of this saintly man 
and its wonderful effect upon his subjects, and 
it made him wild with fury. 

“I am the king,” he said, “and to me, alone, 
they owe allegiance. Every man or woman who 
offers allegiance to any other king, whether, as 
this man alleges, he be of heaven or of earth, 
the guilty ones shall die.” 

The people heeded not his threats, but flocked 
to the Cross and were converted. 

The dungeons of the castle were filled, and 
the cries of the tortured were continuous, but 
the revelry increased, the nightly scenes became 
more boisterous, and that profligate court be- 
came more shameless in its debaucheries, and 
the wine flowed, and the music swelled, and the 
tyranny increased, but the people flocked to the 
Cross, and the tyrant swore he would increase 
the punishment. 

At last, the saint himself was captured and 
immured in the deepest and foulest dungeon of* 
them all. 

The king ordered this gentle, saintly man to 
be brought before him and, after heaping abuse 
on him, he roared : 

“If your king, or God, or Christ, is so all pow- 
erful, let him come and release you, but I defy 
him.” 

The saint was dragged to his filthy dungeon 
again. He prayed incessantly to God to release 
him and take pity on the sufferings of the people. 


The Vengeance of Heaven 73 

For six months he prayed and suffered thus, 
but the persecutions of the people increased to 
such an extent that they began to despair. The 
weaker ones began to doubt the power and 
mercy of this new God. 

“If He is all powerful and all merciful,” they 
said, “why did He permit those horrible perse- 
cutions to continue? Why did He allow His 
representative on earth to be immured in a 
loathsome dungeon?” And they began to fall 
back again into paganism. 

At last the anniversary of the saint’s admis- 
sion into holy orders came, and that night at 
the midnight hour a fearful storm arose, the 
thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the 
mountain rocked in the throes of an earth- 
quake, the wind howled and shrieked, and the 
rain poured, but the wine-cup went round, the 
cymbals clashed, the wind instruments blared, 
and those with strings gave forth their merry 
lilt, the drums rolled and the triangles tinkled, 
the harp-strings twanged as the practised hand 
swept across its strings and the wild madrigal 
swelled, women smiled their seductive smiles 
and gloried in their shameless exposures. The 
music swelled again, higher and higher, and 
higher still. All the instruments joined to- 
gether in one great burst of awful melody, and 
then the cataclysm. 

One fearful shock seemed to rend the very 
earth beneath their feet, the rocks ground 


74 


The Dawn 


against each other, sending clouds of smoking 
dust around them. Another mighty crash of 
thunder, another awful upheaval, the earth be- 
gan to vomit water, the castle walls began to 
crack and totter, and fall. The surging waters 
began to rush and roar beneath them, and the 
castle and the hill on which it stood went down, 
down, and the rushing, hissing water closed 
over it forever, and that last wailing note, from 
all the instruments together, was the death- 
knell of debauchery in Ireland. 

The saint and his imprisoned followers were 
miraculously saved, and, as they .stood on the 
shore of that wild, wave-lashed, pitiless lough, 
he stretched his hand to Heaven and exclaimed, 
‘‘God have mercy on them! they knew You 
not.’’ And holding it over that awful sepulchre, 
he continued: “Sleep forever! thou wicked, 
sin-cursed revellers, sleep! In His pity and 
mercy thy God may yet forgive thee, but, until 
thy sufferings have purged thee from sin, this 
night’s horror will be repeated, but as every 
succeeding year rolls by and thy sufferings have 
cleansed thee more and more, the horrors of the 
scene will become milder and milder, thy music 
will become sweeter and sweeter as the years 
roll by, till at last, when full forgiveness is 
accorded thee, the music will become soft and 
sweet and melt into the sighs of the wind, into 
the rustle of the wings of angels, and then thy 
punishment will have ended, and everlasting 
bliss will be thy portion.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE SEVENTEENTH LANCERS INTERRUPT PHIL- 
OSOPHY. 

“Did you ever hear the music, Owney?” I 
said. 

“I did, Alyana ! wanst, and no man iver hard 
it twisct.” 

“What do you think it is caused by?” I 
asked, “is it real music, played on real instru- 
ments, or is it played by the ghosts of those 
musicians who have been dead so long?” 

“I believe the ghosts do the playin’, and it 
must have been a thrate to have h’ard thim 
playing whin they wor alive and enjoying it 
thimsilves, and you were not schkarred half to 
death while listenin’. 

“The young fellies who play, now-a-days, 
from books, make me narvous listenin’ to thim. 

“Take the flute, now, none of the young cubs 
play it like the ouldtimers, they jist puff into it, 
and the music comes out in wee, thin toots, like 
out of a tin-whistle — they don’t fill it — and as a 
consequence it does not rowl out in soft, full 
volume, that swells and gallops, and lilts, till the 
whole house is filled with intoxicatin’ melody 
that stirs all the finer emotions in yer hart wid 
a strange, coaxin’, entisin’ feeling, that seems to 

75 


76 


The Dawn 


dar’ you to do things and says to you, Come an 
now! and take the flure, thin your heels begin 
to itch and your toes commince to bate the time, 
and dancin’ becomes ketchin’ like ‘the faver.’ 

“The cubs of the prisint time who are larnin 
from the books,” he went on, “are purjucin 
what they call music, the ould bucks purjuced 
melody, be gob! Thin take the fiddle, the byes 
who larn it now jist rub the bow accrast the 
sthrings in wee, short, jerky scratches, like a 
dog scratchin’ his shouldther whin you rub his 
back, and he thinks he’s itchy. And whin they 
can run the wee finger up the first sthring to 
the bridge, and buz there a while wid a sound 
like the sharpenin’ iv a saw, or a cat scratchin’ 
an a tin pail wid rawsin an it, before rain, they 
think they are vartu-o-sos. Whin they get to 
that pint, a man gets narvous and his teeth hurt, 
the dog sticks his nose in the air and howls, and 
the fambly cat takes a fit and runs up the wall 
and comes backward accrast the ceilin’ to the 
pint where she started, yowlin’ as if the divil 
was afther her, and I don’t blame thim ayther. 

“There’s a rowl to the flute and a gallop to 
the fiddle that the books don’t take into con- 
sitheration at all at all, so there is.” 

“Or perhaps the players skip some of the 
notes that are in the book,” I suggested. 

“Aye! there may be somethin’ in that same, 
be me faith,” he said, “there are so many wee, 
wee dots an the paper that they may take for 


The Seventeenth Lancers 77 

fly specks and skip entirely, an’ by doin’ that 
same make the music throt where it ought to 
gallop. 

“The ould min called the insthrument a fiddle 
and thin we had fiddlers, the late crap iv play- 
ers call it a violin an’ it is, be gob ! it violates 
harmony, and murthers music.” 

“I started to talk to you about the music you 
h’ard the night,” he continued, “the mysthery 
of which no man has solved. We ignorant peo- 
ple lay it to the ghosts of those ancient players 
of the castle, but the lamed min claim it is a 
nathral phenominal, caused by the pipe reeds, 
the sharp, dhry grasses and the bulrushes rub- 
bin’ agin each other till they purjuce the sound, 
but none of the lamed kind has iver h’ard the 
musics, as you and I have. If they did hear it, 
they would not believe that a rish cud perjuce 
all the divarsity of sounds you h’ard the night. 

“I’m tould that lamed societies in America 
make fun of uz for believin’ in ghosts, while they 
are sthrong believers in what they call sparitual- 
ism. 

“They don’t believe in the kind iv ghosts we 
have here, that jist rise out iv a wee white lump 
beside the hedge, and grow and grow till they 
are a foot taller thin you are, and thin glide 
beside you jist as fast as you walk or run, widout 
their iver touchin’ foot to ground, and jist luck 
down at you, wid bright eyes set in pale, dead 
faces, and stay wid you only till the cock crows. 


78 


The Dawn 


^‘Their ghosts are par-tickler about the way 
they are thrated, they must be inthertained in 
cabinets made in antique oak, and polished like 
a piany, be gob ! They stay be night or be day, 
too, while the lights are kept low and the cabi- 
net is correctly placed. Our ghosts niver talk 
at all ; theirs talk, convarse, advise, and the divil 
knows what. Our ghosts wandther alone, in 
the darkness and the storm; theirs are gre- 
garious like the starlings in the winter. They 
come in throops, and sit in a steam-hated ante- 
room, waitin’ to be called up, like patients in 
the anteroom of an eye docther, or in silent 
riverie, like the pinitents waitin’ for their turn in 
the con-fissional.” 

'‘Do they wear regular clothes then, Owney?” 
I asked. 

“Naw ! not rigular clothes, I h’ard it said that 
they are shrouded in misthery. They have rig- 
ular forms of iticat, too. I’m tould; they niver 
knock at a door, they always rap an the bottom 
of a table and always talk in whispers.” 

“I wonder why they talk in whispers?” I 
asked. 

“Arrah sure some iv thim may be manicuring 
their wings whin the call comes, or it may be 
inconvenyant to come jist thin, and they sind a 
substitute, and all voices sound alike, in 
whispers. They even write sarmons and bal- 
lads bechune slates, tied firmly togither undther 
the table.” 


The Seventeenth Lancers 79 

“Do you know why they write between the 
slates?” I asked, “and why they do it under the 
table, instead of on it?” He looked at me with a 
world of pity in his glance, for my immature 
reasoning abilities, and said: 

“Mabouchal oge! there is nawthin open or 
above board about a ghost.” 

Just then Molly went to the door and, looking 
out, found it was broad daylight. While she 
stood there, looking down on the far stretching 
moor, fringed as it was by half a mile wide of 
clamped and footed turf around its borders, like 
the sedge and rushes around the shores of a 
lake, she declared that if Owney would go to 
his snares he would probably find something, 
as hundreds of hares were hopping through the 
heather and on the grassy slopes of the moun- 
tain. 

Turning as quick as lightning, she held up her 
finger warningly, and hissingly whispered, 
“hus — h.” We all went softly to the door and 
heard the clear, musical blast of a bugle at the 
foot of the hill, and an answering blast away 
down by the river to the south. I ran out and, 
shading my eyes with my hand, I saw the bright 
rays of the rising sun sparkle and scintillate 
from polished steel, and in another minute I 
could see the shining helmets and bright lances 
of a troop of the 17th Lancers at the very end 
of the road, where Owney had found the baby 
and I last night. 


8o 


The Dawn 


We naturally surmised that they had been 
scouring the country in quest of Captain Darcy’s 
lost baby. As soldiers never still-hunt, there 
was no other reason for them being there, and 
we had no misgivings on “Neddy Bawn’s” ac- 
count. 

Owney and Neddy pushed me up on top of 
the haystack, with instructions to yell as loud as 
I could. Molly threw her apron up to me to 
use as a flag to attract the attention of the 
lancers. In a little while they either heard my 
calls or saw the flag I was waving, as I saw one 
of the horsemen immediately detaching himself 
from the group and start to pick his way across 
the bog, which, on account of a dry summer, 
was firm enough to hold him up. When he got 
to the solid footing on the mountain, he cantered 
up the hill, jumping his horse over the obstacles, 
such as stone fences or schughs. 

As it took him* quite a while to get over the 
bog and wend his zigzag way up to where we 
stood, Molly had the baby washed, her hair 
combed and the little ringlets in curl, and was 
giving her some bread and warm milk when the 
horse came prancing and curvetting up, champ- 
ing on the bit, the saber clanking and the lance 
sparkling, while the ' satin coat of the well 
groomed horse actually shone in the sun, even 
after a night in the mountain dew. 

Stopping his horse without a word or as much 
as a motion of the bridle arm, he just sat there, 


The Seventeenth Lancers 8 i 

as if horse and man were one, and waited till 
he was addressed. 

Owney being the head of the family and com- 
mander-in-chief of our detachment, advanced 
and, pushing his cap farther back on his head as 
a salute, said, as if addressing some grand dig- 
nitary, “Your sarvent, sir,” to which the soldier 
answered, “Soim t’ you.” 

Then Owney said, “We hev here a wee boy 
who kem last night, carryin’ a purty wee baby 
that we have rason to think is Captain Darcy’s 
child, from her tellin’ us that her papa is ‘fa way, 
fightin’ back-mans.’ ” 

“You were bleddy well roight,” answered the 
soldier, and, turning in his saddle, he put the 
bugle to his lips and sounded what I afterwards 
learned was the advance. And the balance of 
the detachments came up from both sides of the 
hill. 

When the sergeant-major, who was in charge, 
came up, I had to relate my whole experience 
to him. When he heard my story to the end, 
he gave a few quick, business-like orders to this 
effect : 

“Coperal ’A’dy and Private Jeunes will hes- 
cort this yeung gentleman ’ome, h’as ’is metha 
mest be hin a blausted styew, daunt y’ knaow, 
’e is a daumned foine laud naow, han I ’ope ’e 
wears spirs an’ h’epaulets some day. Coperal! 
you take the little chaup on your ’oss an’ roide 
loike ’ell to ’ees ’ome.” 


82 


The Dawn 


The baby would not let me go till she had 
kissed me bye-bye, and till we disappeared over 
the hill she kept throwing kisses after me, and 
as Molly told me afterwards, telling them that 
I was “a doo boy.’’ 

When I got home my soldier escort did all in 
his power, with the assistance of an imagination 
given largely to romance, to make a hero out of 
me. 

If the thing had occurred in India or Africa 
I dare say he would have it that I had saved 
the baby from divers man-eating tigers, pythons 
and other animals, but as hares are not prone to 
attack travelers on the highway, he was limited 
in his range of dire possibilities. 

Poor as were the materials from which to 
weave a thrilling narrative of hair breadth es- 
capes, he did fairly well. The corporal and his 
companion told the tale so often in turn, and as 
each repetition brought a fresh treat, I am sure 
that by the time they got to Ballyshannon — via 
Garvin’s Road House at the Quay — there were 
soberer men within the shadow of “Abbey 
Assaroe.” 

The next day Mrs. Darcy drove all the way 
to thank me personally; the baby was with her, 
hale and hearty, and strenuously refused to al- 
low any one but me to take her out of the car- 
riage and put her back again when they were 
leaving. 

Mrs. Darcy and my father used their com- 


The Seventeenth Lancers 83 

bined influence with the magistracy of Donegal 
in behalf of Neddy Bawn, with the result that 
they annulled the case against him, and thus 
ended my experience with The Harvest Fair — 
almost. 


CHAPTER X. 


FATE 

I Spent nearly four years in college. The 
institution was one of those small colleges of 
Ulster, the dean of which was a graduate of the 
University of Dublin, and as a consequence a 
profound scholar. He had also graduated from 
some of the great colleges of Germany and 
other continental countries, issuing forth from 
each with an added string of degrees till his 
name and the honors attached to it looked like 
a very small kite with a very large tail. We 
boys rated him another degree — G. F. — which 
stood for “grand fellow.^’ 

Having spent so much of his time on the con- 
tinent of Europe, he naturally was a wonderful 
linguist, using practically all the modern lan- 
guages, and with as much ease as English. 

As he was a near relative of mine, he took 
an unusual interest in my advancement, so I 
was fairly well versed in French, German, Latin, 
Greek and some of the other languages, and I 
was well up on mathematics, algebra and trigo- 
nometry. In the higher mathematics, including 
algebra, he declared that I gave promise of 
future excellence, that he had never seen 
equaled at my age, and that I would be running 
84 


Fate 


85 


him a close second in a year or so; in fact, I was 
called the best scholar at the Academy of 
Gorryore. 

As the time approached when I was to be 
sent to Dublin or to England to finish my edu- 
cation, he used to cram me incessantly. He used 
to tell me that, as I must keep up the credit of 
our house and name, which was almost consid- 
ered synonymous with learning, he considered 
the time well spent that he gave towards that 
end. 

One day an incident occurred which changed 
the whole course of my life. A carriage drove 
up to the Port-Cochere, surrounded by a bril- 
liant escort of cavalry. An old gentleman of 
regal bearing was assisted from the carriage by 
one of the aide-de-camps. The dean went out 
to greet him, and, leading him in, they went all 
over the buildings, which was not very stren- 
uous work, the institution being rather small. 

He congratulated every one 'connected with 
the management on the regularity displayed and 
the scrupulous cleanliness of the rooms and dor- 
mitories. 

The boys of the higher classes were put 
through a severe “course of sprouts,” first by 
the dean, then by the Lord Lieutenant himself — 
for our visitor was no other than the brilliant 
Earl Spencer, who shot questions at us uninter- 
ruptedly for an hour, on geography, history and 
several other branches. As I was very quick in 


86 


The Dawn 


answering, he seemed to take it as a challenge, 
and singled me out from the whole class, when 
he began to bombard me at close range. 

I stood the siege like Gibraltar, and when both 
of us were tired, but neither conquered, he 
wound up by asking me a question that in the 
light of future events turned out to be rather 
prophetic. 

“Now, boy,” he said, “we will suppose that 
you are an officer in the army and in charge of 
an outpost in the hilly country of South Africa, 
and that in front of your position is a high hill, 
behind which you had reason to believe that the 
enemy was developing some offensive move- 
ment. Your charts would, of course, give you 
the altitude of the hill, but there was a very tall, 
blue gum tree in your immediate vicinity and 
you got an idea that if somebody climbed the 
tree he cpuld look into the enemy’s position, but 
as you would not risk a man unnecessarily you 
want to learn the height of the tree before the 
sun sets, and all the means at hand to measure 
it is a two-foot rule. Now what would you do?” 

“I would measure the shadow cast by the 
tree,” I answered; “then the shadow cast by 
anything at hand, such as a rifle, then as the 
shadow of the shorter article is to the shadow 
of the tree, so is the known length of the shorter 
article to the problematical length of the tree.” 

I would have been slower in working out the 
problem, in all probability, were it not for the 


Fate 


87 


fact that he mentioned the setting sun ; then the 
whole thing came through my mind like a flash, 
and I answered it like a flash. 

He took my hand and shook it warmly and, 
turning to the dean, said, “I congratulate you, 
sir, on the splendid showing made by these boys, 
and this boy in particular, who is certainly the 
quickest I have seen in a long time. He seems 
to see into the. intricacies of a hypothetical ques- 
tion with a clearness and an understanding of 
the highest order.” 

The dean, of course, was delighted, not only 
professionally, but for family reasons as well. 

His Highness turned to me again and asked 
me if I knew of any way in which he could 
assist me in his oflicial capacity. 

I was somewhat abashed for a few minutes, 
but his manner being unstilted and kindly, he 
put me entirely at my ease, as only the gentle- 
man to the manner born can, so I boldly an- 
swered “Yes! Your Highness, there is a way in 
which you can gratify a long cherished ambi- 
tion. 

“When I was a little boy circumstances arose 
in an accidental way that inflamed my mind to- 
wards deeds such as you portrayed in your last 
question to me, and I longed to be a man and a 
soldier. Your Highness being in a position to 
have me gazetted into the army, I would humbly 
ask for an appointment.” 

“Well, my boy, if you can learn to fight as 


88 


The Dawn 


you can figure, I think it would be a pity to 
retard your ambition, so you can expect to be 
called within thirty days to take a course at 
Sandhurst, and I will keep my eye on you, you 
can rest assured, that whenever you deserve 
advancement you will get it. The rule in our 
army being the survival of the fittest, and your 
compatriots being the fittest, they are invariably 
at the head, where I hope you will find yourself 
some day and thereby prove that I make no mis- 
take in being your sponsor.” 

In two months, therefore, I was duly received 
and matriculated in that famous institution, 
among some of the greatest young imps in 
Europe. 

Their impishness, however, never led to the 
vulgar. There was, or is, no hazing at Sand- 
hurst, practical jokes there were, as a matter of 
course, where a lot of warm-blooded young fel- 
lows are thrown together, but they were not 
carried too far. A large number of those very 
imps are filling honored graves in Egypt, India, 
Zululand and The Transvaal now, or are cov- 
ered with medals won on many a hard fought 
field. 

I remember one incident out of the ordinary 
and worthy of mention. 

In the depth of winter a lot of us, who gen- 
erally went in for the strenuous life, got together 
and organized a poaching expedition — if you 
please — in the woods surrounding the institu- 


Fate 


89 


tion. We were armed with all the portable, 
death dealing implements that have been used 
in the chase since Robin Hood sped his gray 
goosequill into the heart of the royal buck in 
Sherwood Forest, up to the modern fowling 
piece of the day. 

We were having a glorious time, but as the 
night was dark we were individually in more 
danger than the quarry. One thing we did suc- 
ceed in, however, no matter how unsuccessful 
we were in the main, we forced the enemy into 
precipitate retreat. It was easy to tell that from 
the crashing of the rotten underbrush ahead of 
us, the awful racket among the branches above, 
and the whir of the pheasant and woodcock. 

A crusty old colonel, who had forgotten that 
he had ever been a boy himself, placed himself 
at the head of about thirty men and got after 
us. We would have been surprised and cap- 
tured were it not for the fact that most of the 
thirty met with similar accidents at about the 
same time by falling and crying out in well 
simulated pain, giving us a warning of which 
we took advantage by dropping into the under- 
brush. The colonel was nearsighted and his 
men were blind, absolutely stone blind, and so 
they marched through us. 

The colonel stumbled over one of the boys — 

General and fell in a bunch of briars, 

wounded in his most sensitive part — his pride. 


90 


The Dawn 


“Did you catch the scoundrel/' he shouted as 
he dragged himself out of the mass of thorns. 

“Catch him!” said one of the men, “why, he 
was the finest buck I ever saw, his antlers must 
have been five feet across.” 

“Buck! antlers! what do you mean, sir? I 
asked you if you caught the young rascal who 
tripped me up?” 

“Why, Colonel Hardy, you must surely be 
mistaken. When you fell the most beautiful 
deer in all this forest sprang away like the devil 
was after him, and went through that forest 
tearing everything in the way of brushwood to 
flinders, and furthermore, I think we are the 
game or will be the game when this wild expe- 
dition gets into the papers. My opinion is that 
what we supposed to be a wild lark, gotten up 
by those boys, was nothing more nor less than 
one of those fierce nocturnal fights among the 
bucks; this is the season, you know, when such 
things occur.” 

“Do you suppose I am a fool, sir? Do bucks 
use firearms in their fights, nocturnal or other- 
wise?” 

“What we supposed to be firearms, colonel, 
was nothing but the snapping of the large, dry, 
rotten branches.” 

“It may be so, it may be so,” said the colonel, 
“but I will not believe it till I see every boy 
in his bed.” 

“I will guarantee that you will find every boy 


Fate 


91 


in his bed when we get back/' said Captain 
Whalley. 

We were listening to the whole colloquy, and 
when the punitive force started back they made 
so much noise that an army could have marched 
either in front or behind them without being 
heard. 

We got up and went through and around 
them as we listed. 

They led the near-sighted colonel in a circie 
through the forest, before straightening out for 
home, and Captain Whalley’s prediction turned 
out to be the truth. We were in bed, and some 
of us talking in our sleep, when the colonel made 
his examination. 

“Bless my soul," he said, when he came into 
the dormitory, “I grievously wronged those in- 
nocent youngsters, but fortunately they will 
never know it." 

If he had taken the precaution to go through 
the dormitories before declaring war, the trouble 
would have been serious enough to bring before 
The Hague Tribunal. His impetuosity was too 
great to think of a little thing as simple as that, 
or the diplomacy of Captain Whalley had been 
productive of peace with honor. 

I would scarcely feel like telling who our 
leader was on that night, suffice it to say that he 
has led some expeditions since that were more 
productive of history. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE FALL OF BELLEEK. 

I was just eighteen years old when I received 
my commission, and that document and my mar- 
riage certificate are the two most treasured 
documents I ever owned. I have title deeds, 
quitclaim deeds, copyrights and naturalization 
papers, which I treasure very highly, but those 
two documents, signed by two of God’s choicest 
creations. Queen Victoria and my wife, I treas- 
ure above all else; those, and the memory of a 
beautiful mother. 

I got a three-months’ furlough to go home 
and have an untrammeled time before going on 
active service. 

I was always fond of fishing, and Belleek 
beats the world for opportunities in that line. 
This little town nestling on both sides of the 
River Erne and amongst the rich grass-clad hills 
of lower Fermanagh, is the mecca for the nim- 
rods of Europe, the hunting and fishing being 
superb. 

They come in pairs, quartets and groups, from 
all over the British Isles and the continent, es- 
pecially during the months of June, July and 
August, that being the time when the salmon 
are going up to spawn, and this being the place 

92 






The Fall of Belleek 


93 


where they meet their greatest obstacle, “The 
Fall of Belleek.” 

It is one of the grandest sights imaginable 
to sit and watch them overcome that immense 
barrier, or their being overcome by it. They 
swim against that awful current till they are 
within striking distance, or leaping distance 
rather, then they seem to stand still, as it were, 
and lift their pretty heads out of the water for 
the purpose of making a scientific examination 
of the obstruction. They seem to study the 
direction and force of the- flow of the current, 
and to make a mental calculation of the altitude 
and the force that would be necessary to put 
forth to reach a certain ledge, or the top, as a 
general would survey the earthworks or fortifi- 
cations of the enemy’s position, and make a 
mental calculation of the force of arms neces- 
sary to take it by storm. 

When they have selected the most feasible 
spot for the jump, they drop down stream, back- 
wards, never losing sight of the coveted goal, 
however. You can see them quivering from gill 
to tail with excitement. When they are far 
enough back for a running start, one mighty 
stroke of the powerful tail and they are off with 
one grand rush that bids defiance to every ob- 
stacle; 'when at the requisite distance, they 
double themselves into a semicircle and 
straighten out again, like a powerful steel 
spring being released, and shoot through the 


94 


The Dawn 


air like an arrow, forward and upward, with such 
force that they look like a bluish gray and white 
streak. 

When a heavy body of water drops over a 
fall it curves over unbroken till it reaches the 
bed rock of the bottom of the stream, when it 
breaks and falls in foaming torrents the balance 
of the distance. 

If the salmon has got up enough force to go 
above that break, he has force enough to pierce 
the smooth curve to his tail, when that powerful 
propeller does the rest, and you feel relieved as 
you watch him in that last frantic struggle, and 
cheer him on his way. If, on the other hand, 
he fails to clear the white, foaming torrent, he 
goes through full tilt on his head against the 
jagged rocks, when he is swept back, bleeding 
and quivering and helpless, just as you or I 
would be, and the poor fellow floats belly up- 
wards, buffeted and rolled in the curling flood, 
away down stream, to recuperate or die. 

I have seen beauties that must have weighed 
upwards of fifty pounds going up there, and 
others just as large going back, wounded and 
helpless. 

The largest fish that I ever saw landed was 
brought to the gaff by an old Englishman named 
Simmons, who was a great favorite, by the way, 
with the street urchins, to whom he used to 
throw pennies by the quart. 

This big forty-pounder fought gallantly all 


The Fall of Belleek 


95 

day, but just as night was falling he turned on 
his side and gave up the struggle. 

The trout fishing is splendid, too. At about 
9 o'clock at night commences what is known 
as ‘‘the night rise.” You go out there on some 
well proven spot, “The Frothy Hole,” “The 
Cool,” or almost any place you choose from 
Belleek to Ballyshannon, where the brakish 
water commences six miles below. If you use 
the fly of the current month your sport will be 
grand, provided you know how to fish. The 
trout being the most particular fish in the river, 
you must know how to cast your line or he will 
turn from you as contemptuously as any lady 
in the land, when presented with some cheap 
bauble by an amateur or a grand dress by her 
husband, if it is out of style. 

“The wallfly”in May,- “the midge in June, 
“the gray dun” in July, and “the greendrake” 
in August is about the way the fashions run in 
Mr. Trout's tidbits, and no self-respecting trout 
will touch a thing the day after it is out of 
season. 

No woman or fop could be more exacting as 
regards the color, texture and time limit of the 
prevailing style than a trout can be, after he has 
reached the age of puberty. 

I had a stirring experience one night while 
enjoying the nightly sport. I went out with a 
young fellow who made his living, such as it 
was, by fishing. His precocious knowledge of 


96 


The Dawn 


trout, their habits and haunts, was surprising. 
He told me of a certain place where all you had 
to do was just fish. 

There was an eelweir above the fall of Bel- 
leek, and the wall or “wing” that is built diag- 
onally up stream, to guide as many eels as pos- 
sible to the nets, paying due regard to the 
eelweirs farther down stream, as provided by 
law, however, by coming to an end, about two- 
thirds the distance across the river, the open 
space being known as “the queen’s gap.” 

We went up this wing to the very end, which 
was a few yards above the succession of little 
falls, or rapids, leading to the great fall. We 
had unusual success, the night being fine and 
the conditions ideal. I was landing the speckled 
beauties as fast as I could “play” them, and in 
my absorption I forgot time and sleep, my com- 
panion and everything else but the sport I loved 
so well. 

My companion, looking on the matter from 
the standpoint of a tradesman, paid due regard 
to a reasonable quitting time and started to fish 
down the wing towards land and home. He 
claimed afterwards that he called me, but I 
never heard him, neither did I pay any atten- 
tion to him. When I was surfeited with the 
sport I looked around, but he was gone, so I 
said to myself, I would stay just a little while 
longer. 

It must have been one o’clock when I finally 


The Fall of Belleek 


97 


began to reel in my line to go home. While 
reeling, I looked straight ahead in an absent- 
minded way; there was a white line of bubbling, 
foaming water clear across from the wing to the 
far shore, caused by the first of the little falls 
I mentioned and the water breaking, going over 
it. All at once a sight met my eye that almost 
froze the blood in my veins. 

Just about a month before I left home to go 
to Sandhurst, I was standing on the bridge, on 
a Sunday afternoon, as was my wont since I was 
a child old enough to look over the parapet. I 
heard a series of wild shouts above the big fall, 
but as there was a sudden bend in the stream, 
and the residence of the manager of the pottery 
cut off the view, I could not see the cause of the 
wild calls for help, but I knew that an accident 
had occurred. I was not long in ignorance, 
however, as I could tell that the cries were get- 
ting closer and closer, and were becoming 
louder and the appeals for help more frantic; 
presently I saw the prow of a boat coming into 
view, about twenty yards above the great fall, 
and there before my eyes was enacted a tragedy 
that I can never forget. 

It appeared that two of the young men of the 
town and an Englishman, all skilled workmen 
in the Belleek Pottery, had gone out boating, 
and having taken enough whiskey to eliminate 
prudence, they went too close to the rapids in 
a vainglorious show of courage, lost control of 


98 


The Dawn 


the boat and went over. The two younger men, 
through some inexplicable freak of fate, man- 
aged to save themselves, but the Englishman, 
being drunker or less daring or quickwitted, just 
sat there grasping the gunwales of the boat on 
either side, and that was his position when I 
saw him first, sitting there rigidly, grasping the 
sides in a vice-like grip and looking straight 
ahead into eternity. 

Coming into the eddying water as it rushed 
from all directions to the concave center of 
the horseshoe of the fall, the boat spun round a 
couple of times, then facing down stream, prow 
to the front, came sweeping toward me in the 
full, smooth sweep of the current. It seemed 
to be going ahead now as fast as an express 
train. I expected to see it dip, end foremost, 
over the fall, but it was going too fast, so it 
shot over almost its entire length and settled 
down far below on an even keel. As the river 
turns suddenly north after going over the fall, I 
expected to see the boat shoot across to the 
opposite side and be dashed to pieces on the 
rocks, but it turned and sailed north, in the 
middle of that boiling caldron. 

Now and then it would give a sidewise dip 
and lurch to one side, but a bellying mountain 
of water would rise boiling under the low side 
and toss it like a cork in the opposite direction, 
when it would take a sickening plunge to the 
side and ahead, as if it was about to dive ; then 


The Fall of Belleek 


99 


the prow would rise far out of the water. And 
so it went. It was approaching me, and I could 
see the eyes of the man looking straight through 
me, with an expression in them that I can never 
forget. I could not understand how he could 
hold himself in the boat during those dizzy 
lurches and plunges. 

On, on it comes. Now it shoots toward the 
pottery, now toward the opposite bank. 

A dozen men are standing on an outjutting 
rock, with ropes and hooks ready to grapple it 
as it goes by. Ah! there! big Tom Kelly has 
thrown the rope, and the hooks have caught on 
the gunwale. Too bad! too bad!! a piece of 
the gunwale breaks off and the last hope is 
gone. The boat being pulled with the hooks 
on the gunwale, dips toward the pressure ; when 
the hold breaks, it rocks fearfully to the other 
side, and the poor fellow nearly falls out, but 
it rights again. 

A sudden commotion back of me causes me 
to turn round, and I see a man struggling to 
free himself from his friends. His strength be- 
ing herculean, he succeeds ; he is already 
stripped to his undergarments. He jumps on 
the parapet and I close my eyes and turn faint 
as he plunges headforemost down, down into the 
river. 

His heroic effort goes for naught, though, as 
at that moment the boat was driven with fearful 
force against Tom’s Rock, prow on, and was 


LcfC. 


100 


The Dawn 


driven together like a telescope and poor Sam 
Scarlet went all unprepared before his God. 

Ten yards more and he would have been 
saved. Big Eddy McIntyre, who had jumped 
to his rescue, could not swim against that 
stream, but he could have guided the boat down 
stream and to the bank. 

Scarlet’s wife said that even Irish bravery was 
not enough to stem the tide of fate, as her hus- 
band told her when leaving that he would never 
come back alive. 

When I think of the look in the eyes of that 
man I shudder and try to shut it out of my 
memory. 

I have seen something like it since — in the 
eyes of an enemy, during that last quick duel, 
when one or the other must die. He sees your 
shortened sword coming straight for his heart, 
and he knows he is too late to parry the thrust. 
His eyes, which were full of hate before, now 
soften to a look of appeal for mercy, though his 
lips are still set and will not beg for quarter; 
the lips represent the man and his worldly de- 
sires, while the eyes show what is desired by 
the soul and the pleadings of the heart. 

As I sat there, reeling in my line, in the middle 
of the night, the sight that I beheld brought 
back the death of poor Sam Scarlet. 

There, half way between me and the shore, 
in the dim light I saw a boat come skimming 
over the very edge of the rapids where the other 


The Fall of Belleek 


lOI 


boat had gone over, and I naturally attributed 
it to a ghostly recurrence of the other affair. 

When it came closer I could see that it had 
one man in it only. It seemed to just skim the 
water like a swallow, as there was no sound 
whatever, as of oars in the rowlocks, or the 
water. The sound of the booming of the great 
fall behind me would account for that, but I did 
not think of that just then. 

A creepy, crawly sensation came over me, and 
I was about to stampede ingloriously. My face 
flushed with shame, however, at the thought. 
I, a soldier, run, never! ghost or no ghost. I 
would wait and find out. At the thought of its 
being a ghost, and Sam Scarlet’s ghost, that 
other tragedy came back to me in all its vivid- 
ness and horror, and I could see those horridly 
living eyes appealing to me from the white, cold 
and practically dead face as they did then. 

Although I had steeled my nerves for any- 
thing, it seemed hours instead of minutes till it 
slid rather than floated up to the wall at my 
feet. 

As the side of the boat rasped bumpingly along 
the stones of the wall, I knew that it was a real 
boat, and when the anchor hook clinked on the 
wall I knew that a real live man had thrown it. 
The man scrambled up the wall and, standing 
there in his oilskin jacket and glazed cap, he 
bowed in mock politeness, saying as he did so: 

“Yer sarvent, sir.” 


102 


The Dawn 


“James Mulhearn,” I gasped, “how in God’s 
name did you row across that brink? I knew 
you were the best boatman in Ireland, but I 
did not think that anything human could cross 
there.” 

“You tuck me for Sam Scarlet al bate,” he 
said with a guffaw, as he shook my hand. 

“The very man, or ghost,” I answered, “and 
I believe that James Mulhearn and a ghost are 
the only representatives of mankind that could 
cross there.” 

“I suppose you wondthered why I came 
accrast,” he said. 

“I know you are the waterbailiff,” I said, “but 
I am still at a loss to know why you risked that 
trip.” 

“I thought you were poaching for salmon,” 
he answered, “and as there is another bailiff at 
the landing of this wing, if you had been a 
poacher, you would have been surrounded be 
land and say.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


ALICE DEVERE. 

I found that there was another attraction 
that was even more luring than the field or 
water sports. 

On my last visit home it began to dawn on 
me that I was beginning to notice. 

From the time I first went to school I sat 
beside a sweet tempered, sunny dispositioned 
little girl, shared my sweets with her, lisped my 
lessons with her, and, as we grew bigger, read 
the same little fairy tales with her, fought for 
her, carried her books to and from school, and 
on one occasion even thrashed my cousin on her 
account. 

He had rolled her in the snow and some sud- 
den fierce impulse seized me, and I mauled him. 

When I was at home the last time I used to 
hang around, hoping that she would ask me to 
do something servile, but I was treated with 
cold indifference where I was once used as a 
slave. Why did she shrink from me now? I 
wondered. Could it be because l was a soldier? 
No! it could not be that, girls are usually favor- 
ably impressed with gold tinsel and burnished 
steel. She could not but remember several 

103 


,104 The Dawn 

black eyes I had effected on her account, but 
such is the world. When you are gone awhile, 
you are forgotten. 

When I was going away to Sandhurst I went 
to bid her good-bye, but she left the house al- 
most as soon as I entered it. I waited a long 
time, in hopes that she would come back, but, 
as she didn’t, I left. When I was going over 
the stile I saw her sitting in the flower garden. 
When I approached her she hid her face, and 
when I pulled her hands away her cheeks were 
wet with tears; when I asked the reason she 
declared that a bee had stung her, but I could 
see no wound, so I wondered why she cried. I 
sat down beside her and told her that I came 
to bid her good-bye, and it only made her cry 
the more. Her maid, Sally McShane, coming 
up then, said, “Hush, darlint, he’ll come back 
till ye.” I asked. Who? and she answered, 
“Augh ! a wee boy from Cork,” and I was mys- 
tified. 

That is how I left her two years ago. 

Now I am eighteen and a man, a military 
officer, straight as an arrow, with head erect 
and chest thrown out, clear skinned and solid of 
muscle from military exercises. I can handle 
the sword or foil with the dexterity of an 
Italian, and may be — possibly — a coming Wel- 
lington. And she! she is a coy, brown-eyed 
little beauty of seventeen, and I know that I 


Alice Devere 105 

am head over ears, madly, desperately in love 
with her, and, somehow, I know that she knows 
it. 

Now I understand why I fought for her and 
hung around her, hoping for the slightest recog- 
nition, and longed for a sight of her all the time 
I was ^way at college, and in England, and why 
I started towards her home when I came back, 
before taking time to change my clothes, and 
why my heart absolutely and entirely went out 
to her when I met her. 

When people grow up together, as we did, 
they do not fall in love, as in the case of 
strangers meeting; they never can tell when the 
thing started — it just grew on them. 

Some little baby emotion, some little trait of 
character appreciated, starts a little germ to 
grow in the heart. It grows very, very slowly, 
maturing as they mature, until some unforeseen 
circumstance, such as absence or sickness, 
causes the little plant to sprout and bloom in a 
night, an hour, or a minute. 

I met her unexpectedly, while turning a cor- 
ner, and almost collided with her. She started 
back with a little scream, turning the color of 
the peony in her hand — then deadly pale — and 
as I jumped forward to keep her from falling I 
exclaimed, entirely unpremeditatedly and in 
commiserating tones, “What is the matter, 
dear?” She looked at me with something in her 


io6 


The Dawn 


eyes that I had never seen in them or any others 
before, and ran away, like the worst frightened 
hare in the parish. 

When I found her again she must have been 
lunching off icebergs, and the glacial period had 
again returned to Europe. 

It went on this way for a month, a little sun- 
shine, just a ray, then an age of frost; then 
some smiles, followed by little puckers around 
the mouth, and a little nose in the air; then 
some more sunshine, followed by another wave 
of frigidity; then, as I declared one day that I 
would not stay out my leave in a place where I 
was so poorly appreciated, it threatened show- 
ers. I relented, and the sun shone again. 

During all this time I could hardly ever find 
her alone ; somebody was always sure to get in 
the wrong place, or she managed to get them 
there. Funny how soon a girl learns how to 
create situations that a boy of the same age 
would never dream of. We were a good deal 
together, however, if the inevitable third party 
was present. We walked together, rowed to- 
gether, read together as we used to in the old 
days. We blushed together, too; that telltale 
blush, every time we met. I was as awkward 
as a bear at times, and sheepish, too, but very 
much in love indeed. She was pert and self- 
possessed and laughed gleefully when I did 
something unusually awkward. She ordered me 
to do things that I would not do for the general, 


Alice Devere 


to7 

but I did them for her as servilely as a shepherd 
puppy. I believe that if she had ordered me to 
get “the round square,” as the old soldiers insist 
on the recruits doing, I 'would go and make a 
fool of myself by asking somebody for it, as 
they do. 

I was tearing my heart-strings almost to 
pieces one day in an effort to screw up enough 
courage to tell her how much I loved her, and 
of how my future happiness depended entirely 
on her being able to reciprocate it. There was 
nothing on earth to prevent me doing so but 
fear, abject humiliating cowardice. We were 
entirely alone, for the first time since I came 
home. There was a gap that had been built up 
temporarily with stones ; it was single, and con- 
sequently a makeshift and rickety. She was on 
one side, I on the other. I inwardly prayed 
for inspiration to eliminate that fence from the 
landscape. Now, why should I be so scared of 
that pretty little brown-eyed, saucy, sweet-faced 
girl? when I knew that I would go with my 
comrades “into the jaws of death, into the 
mouth of hell,” and yet I had not enough cour- 
age to get over, or through, that frail barrier. 

I remember that up to the time I was twelve 
years old I could take all kinds of liberties with 
her, such as sitting by her, reading to her, or 
listening to her read, hold her hands, run her 
long, dark brown ringlets through my fingers; 
and now I am helpless, almost speechless, and 


The Dawn 


loS 

that puny fence a barrier that I — a fierce 
dragoon — cannot cross or breach. What a 
change in two years. All at once a brilliant idea 
passed into my bewildered cranium, and, acting 
on the heaven-sent suggestion, I stepped up to 
the fence, as if to lean on it, tripped, lurched 
forward, in a simulated effort to gain my equi- 
librium, grabbed at the fence for support, and 
went through it with a crash, and lay, thank 
heaven! prone at her feet. Beautiful strategy! 
Napoleon ! thou wert an amateur. 

She assisted me to rise, turned pale at the 
suggestion of blood on my finger, blushed like 
a red, red rose, and was tight in my arms in an 
instant, and the world was mine ! She wept 
there, but her tears never reached mother earth ; 
those were my tears. I earned them and ap- 
propriated them*. When the little weeping spell 
was over and I had dried all those tears — no 
matter how — we made up for lost time and told 
each other all the pent up little sweet things we 
had husbanded since childhood. Then Sally 
appeared like an apparition from nowhere, and 
as people were coming along the road from both 
directions we were glad of the interruption. 

I felt quite sheepish and guilty in Sally’s pres- 
ence, but she put me entirely at my ease in a 
few minutes. She wondered, she declared, that 
we were not reading a fairy tale as of yore. 

‘‘Sure I uset to lak to see the two of yiz, wid 
your two curly heads togither, readin’ wan, so 


Alice Devere 


109 


I uset/’ she said, “but mebby you were tellin’ 
wan till her whin I kem,” with a sly wink at me 
that Alice did not see. “I suppose the first thing 
we’ll learn about yiz is that yiz’l be coortin’, so 
it will, an’ why woodn’t yiz? Throth an’ it’s a 
purty couple yiz’d make, so it is.” 

We spent the whole afternoon together thus, 
and when nobody else was near Sally was so 
engaged picking berries that she never saw us. 

Alice’s long hair fell down and Sally invited 
me to run my fingers through it, to feel how 
silky it was. 

“Sure I remimber how you uset to play wid 
thim curls whin y’ were both little, and sitting 
togither reading thim ould fairy stories,” she 
said. “Now, as we must go home, Alice,” she 
continued, “as it’s gettin’ late, yiz can take lave 
of each ither while I go to the ither side of the 
grove to dig up some cowslip roots I saw there 
wan day.” 

So we were alone again for a while and I have 
always had a warm spot in my heart for Sally 
McShane since. 

There was to be a wedding in a couple of days 
in a place called Bonahill, and as the contracting 
parties were mutual friends to both her family 
and mine, we were invited. The distance by 
the road was about three miles, but it was only 
half a mile across the bog. Both families were 
to drive around, but I organized an expedition 
across the bog. Alice and Sally, myself and 


no 


The Dawn 


Sally’s young man, made up the party. We got 
about half way over when we came to a rather 
difficult place to cross. The place we got into 
got springy, as if an underground lake had 
existed there, and the vegetation extending 
from all directions towards the center had filled 
it and a tough crust had grown over it, but the 
mire was still beneath, and it shook and heaved 
under us like a feather bed on a light mattress, 
and lighter springs; there were solid spots here 
and there, like little islands, where rushes with 
their long, fibrous roots had solidified the 
ground around them, those firm spots being 
commonly called rush-bushes. A man can usu- 
ally get over easy enough by springing from one 
rush bush to another; a girl of Alice Devere’s 
willowy build and graceful agility could get 
along very well with assistance, but Sally Mc- 
Shane, being of more heroic mold, could not 
skip so lightly, even with assistance, and we 
had a great time piloting her across. The 
method I adopted for bringing Alice safely over 
was ideal in her case, but it did not work so well 
with Sally, and what with jumping over unac- 
customed distances and the unchaste actions of 
the frogs, her lungs and throat were taxed to 
their utmost capacity, and we were positively 
sore from laughing. 

Finally the climax came when we least ex- 
pected it. We were almost over this “quaw,” 
and were congratulating ourselves on our spot- 


Alice Devere 


III 


less condition, when we got to the last jump. 
The rush-bush here was four or five feet from 
solid ground. I hopped over and reached my 
cane to Alice. As she sprung, I pulled, and she 
landed in the arms only' too ready to receive 
her. Sally’s young man did as he had seen me 
doing, but when Sally made the spring she was 
less agile than Alice or she miscalculated the 
distance or her young man did not pull at the 
right time. Whatever was at fault, she landed 
in the middle of the “quaw,” and her not too 
insignificant weight drove both feet through the 
crust and she was mired beyond the line of 
masculine inquisitiveness. She was wearing 
what we used to call elastic side shoes, and when 
we drew her out the shoes remained below. 
When she saw her stockinged feet with the 
white toes, instead of the patent leather of her 
shoes, she turned her eyes heavenward in ex- 
clamatory appeal. 

‘‘Mother iv God! me eight and sixpence 
worth,” she exclaimed, as she sat hopelessly on 
the heathery “knowe,” and we rolled on it, 
laughing as if our hearts would break. 

We fished out her shoes, very little the worse 
for their dive; they were not even wet, merely 
coated with turf, as if they had been rubbed 
over with brown laundry soap. She put them 
on and enjoyed the wedding festivities as much 
as any of us. 

Needless to say we came home by the road. 


112 


The Dawn 


I organized that trip over the bog, as I knew it 
well, and had it figured out that Alice would be 
in my arms about half the time while navigat- 
ing that vast archipelago of rush-bushes, and 
my calculations were verified to my entire sat- 
isfaction, and even with the mishaps, to the 
hearty enjoyment of the whole party. 


CHAPTER XIIL 


THE FIFTEENTH OF AUGUST AND THE 
FAIRY BRIDGES. 

The 15th of August being the holiday par 
excellence in Ireland, there are excursions from 
all over the adjoining counties, which are 
tapped by the Great Northern and Western 
Railroad to the ne plus ultra of seaside resorts, 
Bundoran. 

Having learned that my little sweetheart was 
going there on that day, I determined to go, too. 
Not because she was going, of course, but a 
longing desire seized me to feel the bracing air 
of the sea, and to fill my lungs with the pure 
ozone wafted in off the broad Atlantic, and I 
really could not resist it. I learned of the ex- 
cursion a full week ahead of the date, and the 
time seemed half a century, at least, till the 
grand old holiday arrived. 

I just strolled listlessly to the station, hap- 
pened to ask somebody what the crowd was 
doing there, loud enough for Alice to hear me, 
however; mechanically entered a carriage, but 
not the one that Alice and her maid had taken. 
We were both too shy to be known as coortin’, 
and even Sally was not officially aware of our 
liking for each other. I knew that Sally had 
liked me since I was a little fellow, and often 
hinted at a future match, but still she was igno- 
“3 


The Dawn 


114 

rant of the whole thing, and those knowing 
winks and indulgent smiles, first on her little 
mistress and then on me, were merely mani- 
festations of her regard for both of us. And 
Sally McShane was such a guileless, unsophisti- 
cated, good-natured, happy girl that she smiled 
and winked and could not help it. 

We arrived at Bundoran, the second section 
of an excursion train, and when the excitement 
and bustle and confusion was over, I lost sight 
of them and did not run across them again for a 
couple of hours. 

Several of the other girls wanted me to go 
on one expedition or another, but I was always 
under promise to wait there for a friend. 

Finally I spied them, and aiming to meet them 
entirely by accident, I shaped my course with 
that end in view. When I did meet them, Sally 
was delightfully surprised. 

“Oh, Mr. Durand,” she exclaimed, “what a 
lucky thing for me that you are here. Miss 
Alice has been teasing me all day to take her to 
‘The Fairy Bridges,' and it is so far, and I am 
so tired walking in the sand that I really could 
not go, and I was hoping against hope that you 
would show up. Now, if I had told you a week 
or so ago that we were coming I knew you 
would be here, but Alice would not let me tell 
you, fearing that you would think she wanted 
me to, just as if you would think anything of 
the kind. 


The Fifteenth of August 115 

“You are always so obliging, and you and 
Miss Alice were always such good little friends.” 
She winked at me and hugged Alice in panto- 
mime behind her back, and continuing, said, “I 
am sure you will save my poor, tired feet, by 
taking her over there.” 

I blushed furiously, so did Alice, prettily and 
purely out of consideration for Sally’s feet, I 
volunteered, but my heart beat so tumultuously 
that I could hardly calm it long enough to dis- 
semble, and we started, walking a yard apart. 

When we got away from the crowd, however, 
and were crossing a big meadow, which was full 
of young frogs that would frighten any little 
girl, I noticed a converging movement on the 
part of our shadows. And thinking that if 
shadows had sense enough to get together there 
would be no earthly excuse for substances to 
remain apart, I began a closing in move- 
ment. At that minute an impudent little frog 
jumped ferociously at her, causing her to scream 
and try to climb over me. I rescued her with 
much heroic effort, and chased the horrid thing. 
Thereafter I took her hand and kept ahead of 
her, and by puissant demeanor overawed them 
and stopped all danger of a future attack. I led 
her thus through the enemy’s mobile lines. 

Then there was a little babbling brook to 
cross, and how it did babble, but all brooks 
babble when you are in love, or writing poetry, 
so we sat down on a mossy rock to listen to it 


ii6 


The Dawn 


babble. We did not babble much ourselves. We 
were too young, or too much in love, to say 
much, and, moreover, I knew there was such a 
mighty and soul stirring eloquence in that silent 
communing of kindred hearts that I was loth to 
interrupt it, or the brook; both were babbling 
in their own old, old way, one in its bed, the 
other telepathically. 

Brooks are more at liberty to babble than 
young lovers, anyway ; they do not have to raise 
their eyes every once in a while to look into 
other eyes with the varying shades of heaven, 
and Ireland’s purity, and withal roguishness in 
them, and become abashed thereby, and then 
turn away all confusion and helplessness, while 
you point to a crow overhead, carrying a potato 
as big as himself in his bill, to gain time and 
composure; so they keep on babbling uncon- 
cernedly. 

It was a nice little brook just the same. The 
kind that poets rave about, and philosophers 
philosophize on; the stones in it were worn 
smooth and round and slippery from continuous 
babbling. A girl’s foot is so small, too, that it is 
liable to slip off just such little round, smooth 
stones. The philosophers say that “there are 
sermons in stones, and books in the babbling 
brooks.” There was a whole library in this 
particular brook; they were all love stories, too, 
and Alice Devere was the heroine of every 
story. Every stone had a sermon in it, and 
she was the text of each sermon. 


The Fifteenth of August 117 

I took these sermons very much to heart, also 
the text, and carried it bodily across. Somehow 
that text got wonderfully close to an invisible, 
indivisible something, that I alone, on all this 
earth, called a moustache, and the text was de- 
lightful. 

In the fullness of time, and with enraptured 
heart, I fulfilled my promise to Sally, and got 
Alice to “the Fairy Bridges.” We sat down on 
the beetling cliff and looked across the bay to 
the blue mountain at Killebegs, and into the 
seething, restless, moaning sea, a thousand feet 
below. 

Did you ever notice the peculiar feeling that 
comes over one, when two great emotions meet? 
Any two, but awe and love being the greater 
ones, we were overcome by their profundity, 
and sat there in silent contemplation. Every 
little while our eyes would meet and look into 
each other and falter and droop, and the silence 
became more profound. At last I roused myself 
to action and asked if she would like to go down 
into the caves we had heard so much about. 
She was willing, so I took her hand and guided 
her down that somewhat dangerous path, the 
danger making it more attractive to me, as it 
made her rely on me and trust to my protection. 

We entered the great caves that are said to 
penetrate the rocks for miles inland. We got 
into a mighty cavern, rich in its decorations of 
stalactites and stalagmites. We sat on a nat- 


ii8 


The Dawn 


ural bench and admired the varied forms of the 
pendent stalactites and the beauties of the stalag- 
mites on the floor. We wandered a little deeper 
into the labyrinthian windings of the caves. I 
took the precaution to mark the rocks at each 
turn with an arrow pointing outward, so I was 
not a bit afraid of being lost. 

Presently we came to a place where the water 
was dashed up through the crevices of the floor, 
and I thought it was full time to turn back. As 
we had to go down to nearly the sea level to 
get out of the caves I forgot about the tide, 
when we were going in, so to our horror we 
found that it was in, and we were prisoners when 
we tried to get out. 

Alice began to sob convulsively, but I quieted 
her and got her to look on the matter more phil- 
osophically. 

The noise of the booming waves in those 
awful caverns became deafening. I made love 
to her vehemently, but the tide’s angry roar 
drowned every word I said to her. I bawled to 
her that I loved her with all my heart, and she 
smiled as if I were merely complimenting her 
on her complexion. I proposed to her with all 
the fire in my heart, in the words I uttered, and 
she pouted and said it was terrible, or I supposed 
she said that, from the convolutions of her lips. 
I asked her to wait for me till I should win my 
captaincy, and I think her lips said that she knew 
it was gone, but there would be another leaving 


The Fifteenth of August 119 

at 9 o’clock. So we waited till the tide went out, 
then we went back and found Sally radiant and 
undisturbed — and why? 

Here was her young mistress of seventeen 
away all the afternoon and well into the even- 
ing, alone, with an impetuous young fellow of 
eighteen, and she was not a bit shocked. Ah ! 
Well, that was in Ireland. Morality and the 
honor that is its twin sister is such an old insti- 
tution there that it is bred into the women for 
a hundred generations; aye, and into the men, 
too, for they are born of the same mothers. 
Then Ireland differs so much from most coun- 
tries on account of the people being practically 
one race, one family almost, and a man is as 
much interested in protecting the honor of his 
neighbor’s wife and daughter as he is in pro- 
tecting the honor of his father’s wife and daugh- 
ter. He knows that his great-grandfather acted 
just that way towards her great-grandmother, 
and that idea being perpetuated has produced 
such a splendidly moral race of people that he 
gives his help in handing down that condition 
to his great-grandson, and, as he wants to see 
her great-granddaughter a fitting mate for him, 
there is small fear of people going wrong from 
the standpoint of morality. Religion has a good 
deal to do with it, of course, but religion with- 
out honor and faith would be as effective as a 
statute, without a policeman to enforce it. 

Take religion from a man and you have a 


120 


The Dawn 


brute; take it from a woman and, to quote Kip- 
ling, you have “a rag and a bone and a hank 
of hair.” 

So religion has not changed a particle nor has 
honor relaxed an iota in Ireland since the in- 
vading knight met the lady, beautiful but un- 
attended, on the bleak highway, and in an effort 
to strike up a friendship of the baser kind, he 
started to commiserate her on her forlorn con- 
dition and met with the same rebuff that a man 
will meet with under the same conditions over 
there today. 

Here is a part of the colloquy as given in the 
old song which is always a new song in Ireland : 

He— 

“Lady dost thou not fear to stray 

So lone and so lovely on this bleak highway? 

Are Erin’s sons so good or so cold 

As not to be tempted by beauty or gold?” 

She— 

“Sir knight, I feel not the least alarm; 

No son of Erin will offer me harm. 

For, though they love beauty and golden store, 

Sir, knight, they love honor and virtue more.” 

Consequently Sally knew that her little mis- 
tress was as safe with me as she would have 
been at home in her mother’s arms, and the coy 
little maiden knew it, too, and the people of 
Ireland respect each other with a respect that 
is real, because they do know it. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


PARTING NEAR THE OLD THATCHED SCHOOL. 

The next month passed all too quick, and 
when I was going away this time we both knew 
that it would be years before we could meet 
again, as my regiment was due for foreign serv- 
ice, and we were, therefore, brokenhearted. 

It was some months before I could go to sleep 
without a sigh or an involuntary sob, which I 
did not consider a bit unmanly, nor would you 
if you had ever known little Alice Devere; and 
yet, Alice was married before I was gone two 
years. I have heard it said that matches are 
made in heaven, but don’t you believe it; a 
good many of them are made over a dandy of 
punch on the evening of the Harvest Fair in 
Ballyshannon. 

Let me stop right here to defend little Alice 
Devere, as I did that day in the snow, as I have 
done on every necessary occasion since we were 
friendly little toddlers together at school or out 
of school, in the sunshine or the storm, always. 

It was impressed on the poor child that an 
absent soldier husband would be a poor com- 
forter, and that the chances were largely in fa- 
vor of young widowhood, and her advisers were 
right, but that did not help me any. 


122 


The Dawn 


I never blamed her; she was given to the man 
and had nothing to do with the compact till the 
wedding day, then she spoke her piece from dic- 
tation, as many another does. There is only 
one way to learn that piece by heart, and, pe- 
culiar as the anomaly is, you must have given 
your heart away to do it. 

I would stake my life on it now that she was 
and is a faithful wife to him. I hope that she 
learned to love him, or that he had gentleness 
enough to teach her to love him ; whether he had 
or not, it will make no difference as far as her 
honor as a wife is concerned, as snakes and 
unfaithful wives are not indigenous to Ireland. 

A match is arranged in an offhand manner, 
in Ireland, and much along the same lines as 
those followed when arranging an alliance be- 
tween Miss Gasswell and the Laird O’Cockpen, 
only in place of terrapin and Mum’s extra dry, 
they arrange it over a wee dhrop o’ scaulteen 
and a nibble o’ toast. 

Tommy Devere is at the Harvest Fair, and 
after disposing of his stock he meets Mick Mc- 
Grath, who is a distant relative. They go to De- 
laney’s to have a dhrop o’ sometin’ warm. Mick 
was not at the fair to sell cattle, as he has none 
to sell; he was there to meet people who did 
have some to sell, and after selling them, loosen 
up. Mick is a professional matchmaker, and he 
is a distant relative to every man who has mar- 
riageable daughters. He broaches the subject 


Parting 


123 


something like this, while looking through his 
glass to note the peculiar rotary movements of 
the fusel oil, when the cold water touches it, a 
happy thought seems to come to him out of the 
fantastic evolutions in the glass. 

“That ouldest girrel of yours is a dang fine 
match for somebody, Tammy, and I know the 
very man that would suit her; he is a fine bi, 
the divil a less, two hundthred acres of the finest 
land in the parish o’ Breecy, and a run for fifty 
head o’ cattle on the moor. His farm is a ‘free- 
hould’ farm, too; no fear of the landlord or the 
sheriff there ; be the way, how much can ye 
give wid that girrel?” 

Tommy is very proud of his financial stand- 
ing, and proudly answers, “Five hundthred 
pounds.” 

After a few more rounds, all of which are paid 
for by Tommy Devere, they part, but another 
meeting is arranged, at which several men rep- 
resenting each side are present. The sitting in 
this case would remind one of the Interstate 
Commerce Cornmission in session discussing re- 
bates to the packing trust, rather than the set- 
tling for life of a little girl of eighteen, who is not 
even present to sob a word in her own defence. 

Pounds and cows and turbary are discussed, 
harness and horses and riparian rights are then 
gone into, but not a word about the likes or 
dislikes of the girl. The swain — who may have 
passed the swain period by a decade or two — is 


124 


The Dawi^ 


much spoken of as the owner of the cows and 
turbary and harness and horses, and the holder 
of the riparian rights, but never as to his fitness 
to be a life companion of a sweet-faced little girl 
whose lip would quiver at the sound of an angry 
word, and who would cling lovingly to the man 
who, by his actions, showed her that his whole 
life was devoted to one object — making her 
happy. 

When Tommy goes home, after the match is 
made and the settlements arranged, he wonders 
why Alice is not singing all over the house. He 
finds how the wind blows, when Sally McShane 
opens on him, but it is too late ; he is sorry, but 
his word is pledged, and the papers signed. 

Anyway, young Durand is in Africa, and he 
may not be home for years, never, perhaps. 
Now, if he had been the ouldest son, and at 
home with his wife, he would have her before 
any man in Ireland, but as it is, he has no pros- 
pects. Suppose Alice should marry him, and 
after she has a lot of young children he should 
die, or get killed, what would she do to support 
them ? The little income he has, dying with him. 
All in all, he is a good boy, but a poor match, 
and exit Durand. 


CHAPTER XV. 


“MULLINGAR.” 

I joined my regiment on the Curragh of Kil- 
dare, where we remained during the Autumn 
maneuvers, and in the early part of winter we 
went to Mullingar, where we lay for some 
months. 

We made many acquaintances among the 
town and county families, and during that win- 
ter we had a continuous whirl of excitement and 
pleasure. Here, in a brilliant uniform, I could 
choose my partners from amongst the best in 
the land, but I could not enjoy the society of any 
girl. I never was a flirt, and to go around with 
the average girl one must say complimentary 
things, and they in their turn lead to serious 
things. At that time I would consider it little 
short of sacrilege to even hint affectionate re- 
gard for another, while the one I did love be- 
lieved in my honor and fealty to her. 

I have not changed my views yet, on that 
point. Half the divorces are brought about by 
the morbid actions of man who, not content 
with the society of a good wife and her unim- 
passioned gentility, must needs run after the 
wild and passionate allurements of coarse and 
unregeneratc women, while the refined and gen- 
125 


126 


The Dawn 


tie wife is at home, a prisoner in her own house, 
where she teaches his children to respect him. 

In and around Mullingar the people were a 
fine, hospitable, genial, dancing, hunting crowd, 
and there was small chance of getting very lone- 
some, as the excitement was perpetual, the 
shooting excellent and the hunting grand. About 
six miles from town there lived a man whose 
character and actions drew my particular atten- 
tion. He had been raised to the magistracy 
recently, from the gentleman-farmer class; his 
efforts to get into society were strenuous and 
withal pathetic. 

His decisions were harsh, sometimes cruel, 
and his general demeanor towards the public 
was stilted and lofty. He was very particular 
regarding the quality and amount of deference 
shown him, and was not slow to demand it and 
enforce the demand when possible. As a natural 
consequence, he got what all men like him get — 
contempt and derision from the class of people 
he was trying to break into, by hook or crook, 
and ridicule from those that he was trying to 
get away from, and it soured a disposition where 
meanness and vanity were the chief ingredients. 
He was well over the six-foot mark, powerful 
of frame and voice, deep chested and swagger- 
ing, close-fisted and grasping, quick to collect 
and slow to pay, and his overweening vanity 
was shown in every move and act. He strutted 
rather than walked ; declaimed rather than 


Mullingar 


127 


spoke, and even his tongue had acquired a strut, 
his language was a cross between a lisping 
brogue and a strident cockneyism, and his ex- 
pressions of the grandiloquent variety. 

This mode of speech found full play on the 
bench, where he descanted to an audience of the 
tag-rag and bob-tail class — the tinkers, sweeps, 
and lower order of itinerants. Here he was the 
law, and the living embodiment of “The British 
Constitution.” 

In addressing himself to a cringing prisoner 
he would always saj: “I, George Thatcher, do 
hereby,” etc., and the habitues of the court were 
supposed to look up to him admiringly, but they 
didn’t always do it, outside of court. 

I was out one day on an exercise trot for the 
purpose of studying the qualities of some im- 
ported horses. I had fallen back to talk with 
one of my newly-acquired acquaintances, the 
troop trotting ahead, and meeting the high and 
mighty George Thatcher, saluted him in the or- 
dinary way. When he was coming up, my ac- 
quaintance, Captain Farrelly, who was a magis- 
trate himself, told me of the identity of the man 
and of his struts and foibles. 

When he came up to us he was beside him- 
self with unsuppressed indignation. He com- 
plained bitterly of the insult to his dignity. He, 
George Thatcher, passed by a whole troop of 
“Her Majesty’s Horse” without a man raising 
a hand to salute him, utterly ignored by a lot of 


128 


The Dawn 


common soldiers, picked up for a shilling a 
head, from the highways and byways of the land. 
He, a justice of the peace and deputy lieutenant, 
horrible ! 

I asked him to ride back with me and I would 
prove to him that he was mistaken. Hungering 
for that deferred salute, to heal his wounded 
feelings, he turned back and we cantered ahead 
of the advance guard, and turning, we rode 
slowly back, passing the whole troop. As we 
advanced I could see his choler rise, higher and 
higher, till it reached the culminating point, as 
the rear guard trotted by, when he roared out : 

“Do you, sir, allow those mutinous villains 
in the Queen’s uniform to slight your rank and 
ignore your authority as well as my dignity as 
a gentleman and a magistrate?” 

I laughed at him, saying: “I knew how it 
was, but I wanted to prove a theory, Mr. 
Thatcher. I see that you do not understand a 
cavalry salute, as well as you know how to fine 
a widow, for allowing her pig to wander on the 
roadside. If you want a windmill motion to 
your salutes, you should go down the road to 
the railroad crossing and have the gateman raise 
and lower the signal arm to you all day. Good 
day, sir,” and I trotted off, leaving him sitting 
motionless till I turned a bend in the road. 

He reported the matter to the colonel, who 
gave him a beautiful dressing down, and the 
matter getting out, as such matters will, he was 


Mullingar 


129 


the laughing stock of the county while we were 
there, and, I suppose, till his death. 

Before we left Mullingar I saw some more 
of this gentleman’s fitness for the bench. Court 
was being held in one of the smaller towns, 
where I had been visiting Captain Farrelly. I 
was invited by several of the magistrates to take 
a seat among them, as a spectator. 

The great George Thatcher was nominated 
chairman for the day, or until the stipendiary 
magistrate would show up. The dingy court 
room was crowded as usual, when he was pre- 
siding — men and moths having the same ten- 
dency to flutter into places where danger lurks, 
and as subsequent events proved, they get their 
wings singed for their inquisitiveness in about 
the same way. 

On this particular occasion I thought that he 
wanted to show me how impressive and im- 
portant he really was, and how indispensable he 
was to the peace of the country and the regu- 
larity of society. His grandiloquent display of 
language, his oriental dignity, his absurd as- 
sumption of all but the royal prerogative, his 
fierce denunciation of crime, his rigorous rulings 
and his severity in punishments, brought in the 
idle throng to listen,' condemn and commiserate. 

When the court was duly opened Mr. Thatch- 
er blew a loud blast on his not insignificant 
nose, which would be an impressive way to 
open court in itself without any other flourishes, 


130 


The Dawn 


but he leaned forward, with a big quill pen 
poised in his hand, because of its historical im- 
portance, I suppose, in signing legal documents. 
If King John used a quill to sign Magna Charta, 
Geo. Thatcher would not use a common steel 
affair to sign a commitment for contempt of 
court. 

He stood up and impressively called out: 

“Clerk, call the first case,” and sat down 
again, sixteen stone of solid dignity. 

“This is a trespass case, your worship,” said 
the clerk. 

“The Royal Irish Constabulary versus Mrs. 
Ellen McCarty.” 

A callow youth, in the uniform of a sub-con- 
stable, approached, awe-stricken and pale, the 
chin strap of his forage cap in his mouth, and 
a “summons” trembling in his hand. The clerk 
handed him a little Testament, grimy and 
greasy from long use, and the fumbling it had 
received from hands that were not always clean, 
and in a sing-song voice dictated the oath. 

“You do swear that you will tell the truth, the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help 
your God? Kiss the book! Kiss the book! I 
say,” and as the young fellow, who was evident- 
ly handling his first case, raised it to his lips, 
his hand shook so violently that it actually shook 
out of it, and dropping on the clerk’s inkbottle, 
played havoc with the docket. As the book fell 
out of his hand the poor boy sucked in his chin 


Mullingar 


131 

strap and almost swallowed it at a gulp. When 
the Testament had been handed to him again 
he made sure of a successful osculation by taking 
it into both hands and pressing it to his lips as if 
it was his best girl, and it took a week to remove 
the ink from his face. 

The incident was so ludicrous that the throng 
of people was convulsed with laughter, an out- 
rage on the dignity of the law and the presiding 
magistrate that could not%be allowed to go un- 
punished. So, standing up and glaring into the 
crowd, he caught a youth on whose face the 
wrinkles of the guffaw were still unfrozen, he 
ordered a constable to bring him before the 
bench for punishment. After a severe lecture 
on the fearful crime of which he was guilty, he 
sent him to jail for a month. 

The crowd being duly awed into deep respect 
for the law and its dispensers, the young police- 
man, on whose face the ink had dried, giving it 
the appearance of the map of Greenland by 
moonlight, advanced again, and in a calmer 
manner and a broad Kerry accent, said : 

“Yer worship, I does be out an a day pith- 
role, and whin I does be passin’ Roosky grave- 
yard I do see, so I do, Mrs. McCa-arty's goat, yer 
worship, aboundin’ an’ abuttin’ on the public 
road — alo-one. 

'‘Mrs. Ellen McCarty,” called the clerk. 

“Here, yer anner’s worship,” and a little old 
woman, with a thin shawl over her head and 


132 


The Dawn 


drawn forward, pinned under her chin, shuffled 
up, and when she made her “courtsey” she over- 
done it and sat down, scrambling to her feet 
with the assistance of the “Gossoon Peeler,” she 
stood there with the expression of a regicide 
waiting the order for the march to Tyburn. 

“What have you got to say?” demanded the 
justice. 

“Nat mich, yer averence’s anner’s worship,” 
she replied, “ye can hang me if ye lek, but I 
thried hard, the Lard knows how hard, to make 
that divil o’ a goaat re-spict the laa.” 

“Five shillings and costs,” or ten days in 
“goal.” 

“Call the next case.” 

I heard afterwards that as Ellen McCarty 
could not get five shillings to pay her fine, Capt. 
Farrelly, another magistrate on the bench, paid 
it. 

The next case was “The Royal Irish Con- 
stabulary versus The Flon. Geo. Thatcher,” and 
a suppressed titter went through the throng, 
swelling here and there to what might be called 
a smothered “hosana.” 

The justice peered, but the frost was Arctic. 
A sub-constable, manly and debonnaire, hand- 
some and evidently educated, walked up, 
reached for the book and kissed it lightly, as a 
woman kisses her dearest enemy, then, facing 
the great George unflinchingly, “stated his case” 
as if to the manner born. 


Mullingar 


133 


‘‘Your worship,” he said, “on the 14th inst. 
I was proceeding to Currydoolin with a ‘speedy 
communication’ at about 3 p. m., the wind 
being from the north and the day fine. When 
nearing the main gate of ‘Creevecurry lodge’ I 
found fifty-two head of cattle, including a vicious 
bull, straying on the public road, without any- 
body being in charge of same. I was attacked 
by the bull, but I pulled a sappling out by the 
roots and knocked him down with it, several 
times, before he became a tractable bull.” 

“How do you know who the owner was?” 
demanded the justice, acting as his own attorney 
as well as judge. 

“No other person in the neighborhood owns 
that number of cattle, and, besides, they had 
the Thatcher brand on them.” 

The judge stood up and rendered his decision 
thus : 

“George Thatcher, you have been appointed 
to administer the law, and you will administer 
the law, without fear, favor or affection, malice 
or ill-will. You have been brought before me, 
charged with a serious offence; you have been 
proven guilty of that offence; you, who should 
and will uphold the law, have no more right to 
break it than the meanest person in this com- 
munity. Therefore, Geo. Thatcher, I find it my 
onerous duty to fine you in the mitigated pen- 
alty of ten shillings and costs.” 

Captain Farrelly, who had not said a word 


134 


The Dawn 


since court had been convened, jumped to his 
feet and said: ‘T cannot concur in that deci- 
sion.” “Nor I,” “nor I,” echoed two other mag- 
istrates, “and furthermore,” continued the cap- 
tain, “the whole thing is illegal ; you have acted 
as defendant, attorney and judge, and I move, 
Mr. Thatcher, that you relinquish the chair 
while this case is being adjudicated upon legal- 

ly.” 

All the other justices concurred, and, nomi- 
nating the Captain for the chair, he took Mr. 
Thatcher’s place. 

The case being reopened, Mr. Thatcher was 
fined the limit, three pounds and costs, and he 
left the court in high dudgeon and galloped 
home. 

An old schoolmaster, who was in court, mur- 
mured loud enough for me to hear him : 

“Deposuit potentes de sede et exaltavit.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE WOMAN IN SILK. 

About a week subsequent to our arrival at 
Mullingar, and on my first night on guard duty 
at that place, I had an experience of the weird 
variety. I had just made the usual rounds, and, 
after coming into the little room I occupied, I 
lay down on a lounge, lit my pipe and resumed 
a novel which I was reading for about the 
fourth time. It was ‘‘The Children of the Ab- 
bey.” Its author — Miss Roach — had been a 
friend of our family, almost a century ago. The 
scene was laid around my home, and it had oth- 
er associations connecting it and us with the 
past, which made it a favorite at our house. 

My mother had given the book to me when I 
was leaving, saying that it might while away a 
tedious hour sometime. I was at that part where 
Miss Fitzallen came face to face with the ghostly 
and emaciated, though repentant wife of her 
grandfather in the forbidden wing of Dunraven 
Abbey. My back was toward the door, the 
gruesomeness of the tale, the dull flickering 
lamp-light, the silence, broken only by the meas- 
ured and rhythmic beat, beat, beat, of the foot- 
steps of the guard outside, as he tramped back 
and forth in the flagged court, and the general 
135 


136 


The Dawn 


somberness of the midnight vigil — all tended to 
impart that “creepy-crawley” sensation we feel 
when a gruesome tale is being unfolded. I have 
experienced that same peculiar feeling since, 
when on outpost duty, close to the enemy’s po- 
sition on a dark, still night, when the stillness 
was broken by the lion’s roar, in close proximity, 
or when some small animal or snake scurried 
among the dry leaves, and I imagined that I 
could feel the enemy’s presence and smell the 
odor of the African savage and believed that he 
was stealthily approaching, but could not see 
my finger. 

A slight rustling sound reached my ears, like 
the sound of agitated silk. It stopped awhile, 
but started up again, this time more distinctly 
and more clearly defined, and I could make out 
the zeff! zeff ! zeff! as if it were made by a wo- 
man walking, and as she walked, kicking into 
the stiff and heavy folds of a silk dress. 

I laughed at the peculiar feeling it caused, but, 
as it continued to get clearer, and that unmis- 
takable zeff! zeff! zeff! was right behind me, I 
turned clear around and looked toward the 
door. The sound stopped again, and I listened, 
while a cold chill began to creep over me and 
run up and down my spine, just as it used to do 
when my nurse told me some unusually blood- 
curdling story of fairy or monstrous giant, when 
I was a little impressionable fellow, and believed 
every word she told me as firmly as I believed 


The Woman in Silk 


137 


in heaven and resurrection, as portrayed by my 
mother. I felt a sense of shame come over me, 
and reproached myself for allowing myself to 
even harbor a thought approaching fear. 

The regiment to which I belonged had a rec- 
ord for courageous achievements that went back 
to the middle ages, and a reputation that de- 
clared it had never been known to fear either 
man or devil. 

“Coward!” I almost hissed, addressing my- 
self in derision. “If a faint rustle, real or imagi- 
nary, in the night, and caused no doubt by a scur- 
rying mouse, can set your nerves on edge, and 
your blood to turn cold, what will become of 
you when you find yourself in some rock-bound 
krantz in the heart of Africa, where you are 
going in a month, with no friendly hand to help 
or voice to cheer?” 

I almost jumped over the lounge when my 
eyes sought the door again, for there, standing 
on the very threshold, and looking straight into 
my eyes, was the most beautiful woman I had 
ever beheld. 

Stately as an oriental queen, with the sym- 
metrical curves of a Greek goddess, and, withal, 
that willowy, winsome poise, inseparable from 
the gentler class among the Irish people. 

She had a loveliness that was superhuman, 
and flesh tints that were incomparable and seen 
only, on all this earth, in Ireland, and there only 
on the cheeks of women of the refined class, 


138 


The Dawn 


where centuries of purity and generations of 
health have eliminated every taint from the 
blood, and left the skin pure and clear and tint- 
ed like the beautiful petals of an orchid. 

Her eyes were glorious, of deep, deep blue, 
translucent as a diamond and innocent as those 
of a little child. Those are the eyes that adorn 
and protect, the eyes that lure and infatuate, yet 
defy a wanton glance ; the eyes that draw you to 
them, yet plainly intimate “so far thou shalt go, 
but no farther.’' 

The eyes of a woman can be, and are, either 
her greatest protection or her greatest curse. 
There are few men who can resist the luring in- 
vitation of an eye born or educated to lure; 
neither is there a man bold enough to dare a too 
familiar approach when the eye of purity and 
honor says “back to the jungles from which 
you came, and to which you belong.” 

Her hair, too, was remarkable; it was of a 
beautiful tint of golden brown and fell down in 
prodigal profusion far below her hips. Her little 
pink ears looked for all the world like equatorial 
shells, their convolutions showing that her 
character was all that her beautiful face would 
indicate. 

“Good heavens!” I gasped, “what wondrous 
eyes!” Full of tender pleading, yet they pierced 
me to the soul. 

Her lips moved as if in an unsuccessful effort 
to speak, but no sound came from those lovely 


The Woman in Silk 


139 


portals. Her hands were clasped as if in prayer, 
and her pose invited conversation. Her dress 
alone was strange and old-fashioned, resembling 
in style those we see in pictures of the times of 
our great-grandmothers. Her well rounded, 
shapely arms were bare almost to the shoulders, 
and the corsage was that of a hundred years 
ago. She had a little cape of costly old lace 
thrown loosely over her shoulders, as if she 
were taking a stroll on a cool summer evening. 

As I looked at her, spellbound, speechless, she 
slowly unclasped her hands, and, as they drop- 
ped to her sides I noticed a heavy gold wedding 
ring on the finger of her left hand, which was 
nearest to me. 

“Ah !” I exclaimed, as the ring slipped off her 
finger, falling to the flagged floor, from which 
it rebounded a foot in the air, dropping again 
and spinning around several times, wobbling as 
a larger hoop would do under the circumstances, 
before settling down. When it did settle it dis- 
appeared as if by the act of a magician, or by 
some form of occult chemistry which caused it 
to mingle with the air, or fuse with the flag on 
which it fell. 

She inclined her head and body toward me, as 
if in an old-fashioned, formal, though dignified 
bow. She moved her lips again, but not a sound 
escaped them. 

All at once my heart turned sick as a horrid 
gurgle forced itself, not from her lips, but from 


140 


The Dawn 


her diaphragm. An awful expression of sur- 
prise and horrified pain came over her face, her 
head went back as if pulled from behind, and, 
Heavenly Father! her throat was cut from ear 
to ear, deep, deep down to the vertebrae, but not 
a drop of blood was to be seen; nothing but 
white, cold, dead flesh. Oh, what an awful con- 
trast between the beautiful life-like eyes and face 
and that open wound! 

She gave one long, piercing, wailing scream, 
which echoed and re-echoed through those old, 
old stone corridors, and she was gone, but 
where ? 

I heard that silken zefif! zefiP! zefif! again in the 
declining cadence of retreat. My senses and 
presence of mind seemed to come back to me 
at once, and as I jumped through the door in 
pursuit, grabbing a candle-stick with a candle 
in it, as I passed the mantel, I determined to 
solve the mystery at any cost. 

I lit the candle as I ran, and wnen I got to a 
turn in the long, winding corridor, I could see 
her ahead of me, about twenty paces, turning 
another curve in the passageway. When I 
reached that point she was just within the outer 
rim of light thrown by my candle. I was gain- 
ing on her rapidly, and could see by the flickering 
light the candle produced, and a peculiar glow 
of white florescence around her, that her head 
was still thrown back on her shoulders, or be- 
tween them, rather, and was bobbing there as 


The Woman in Silk 


141 

she walked, as though it was held by the skin of 
her neck only. She was still looking at me 
with those preternaturally bright eyes, which, 
though wrong side up, appeared to be focused 
on mine all the time. She stopped at the door of 
one of a row of stone cells which opened on this 
corridor, and regardless of the fact that it was 
locked, she entered and another blood-curdling 
shriek came from her, turning to a prolonged 
wailing scream, growing fainter and fainter, as if 
coming from a person going down stairs into a 
closed cellar; then it appeared as if coming from 
a deep-laid tunnel, and died away gradually as 
it got farther away from me, to a suppressed 
sigh, then a rasping whisper — and she was gone 
for ever, as far as I was concerned. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


THE MESS-MURDER. 

While I had been pursuing her all sense of 
fear had left me. I had made up my mind to see 
the thing through to the end, and a dogged de- 
termination caused me to follow her up. If 
some one was trying to play a practical joke on 
me, he or she was barking up the wrong tree. 
I went back to the guard-room, and, securing 
the keys to those cells, I returned, and opening 
the door, entered to find myself in a little stone 
compartment, cold and damp, but empty. 

I drew my sword and pounded on the walls 
with the hilt, but they rang back solid as the 
rock of Gibraltar. I tapped the flags of the 
floor, one by one, with the same result, so, giving 
it up, I went back to think the whole matter 
over and try to arrive at some tangible theory. 

In thinking of those cells I recalled the fact 
that a few days before I had enquired of an old 
pensioner, who had been employed about the 
barracks for years, what they had been used for, 
and he told me they were used for the ‘'toddy 
daffys.” 

“What on earth are the ‘toddy daffys?’” I 
asked, and this was his explanation : 

In India there is a native tree, something like 
the sugar maple, when an incision is made in 
the bark, or a gimlet-hole is bored into the 

142 


The Mess-Murder 


143 


wood itself, a milky fluid runs out, called toddy. 
The groves of those trees are called “toddy 
topes.” 

The soldiers stationed in India tap the trees 
and draw the juice which flows, and drink it, a 
stupor resembling drunkenness is the result; 
continuous use of it ruins the brain and the 
whole nervous system. Insanity, temporary or 
permanent, according to the length of time it 
is indulged in, is sure to be the ultimate result. 
Whenever the persons so afflicted drink intoxi- 
cating liquor, afterwards, even after apparent 
recovery, a wild fit of violent insanity is the re- 
sult, and those cells are then padded and the 
poor fellows are strapped with soft bandages till 
the condition passes off, when they are seeming- 
ly as well as ever, till another drunk brings on 
another spell. 

I made up my mind to tell nobody about the 
matter till I explained it to the colonel. I knew 
that I would take the chances of being ridi- 
culed for years, but I intended to tell it as a 
joke on myself and take the chaffing. I thought 
that it was of sufficient importance to tell it, in 
some way. I wanted that cell investigated; I 
firmly believed now that there was a dark, grue- 
some mystery back of it. When I got back to 
my room and the excitement of the chase was 
over, a cold, clammy sweat broke out on me, and 
I thought that perhaps some aberration of the 
mental faculties had seized me, or, perhaps I had 


144 


The Dawn 


dozed and in that infinitely short space of time, 
which scientists tell us is necessary for the long- 
est dream, I had gone through that awful phan- 
tasmagoria! and unearthly experience. 

Looking at the matter from that standpoint I 
remembered that I had partaken of a favorite 
dish of mine, not wisely, perhaps — “the Welsh 
rarebit.” And yet I know I did not sleep. I 
knew, too, that my stomach was not out of or- 
der, so that theory must be wrong; then what 
was it? If it was a real disembodied spirit, why 
did she appear to me? — a total stranger here, 
and consequently could not know the things that 
caused her unrest. I had always been told that 
when a wandering spirit of the dead appeared 
to a person, it hoped for the privilege of speak- 
ing, which it could not do till spoken to. 

I was sorry I did not give the poor woman a 
chance. Perhaps I could have righted some 
wrong for her, and, by doing so, give her the 
rest that was denied her. I never was a coward 
when the necessity for action arose, neither was 
I a seeker for unnecessary trouble, but when it 
came my way unsolicited, I never acted the 
craven. I have proved that on many occasions. 
I have walked in the dead of night, away from 
the companionship of any friendly man, among 
the graves of the newly-buried dead, in a lonely 
“kloof” in Zululand, or, through “nek” or over 
“Poort” in the heart of the “Drackenburg 
mountains,” while the lion’s awful roar rever- 


The Mess-Murder 


145 


berated through the ape-thronged caves of the 
rocky “krantz,” when I could see nothing but 
the green-gray fiendish eyes of the ghoulish 
hyena and hear nothing but his rasping snarl 
as he fought with his kind, over the scarcely 
cold flesh of my dead comrades, and that other 
roar, I mentioned, and the never-ending chatter 
of the gibbering apes half way up the precipice. 

If those apes could converse and use a defined 
language, as claimed by Professor Gardner, they 
were, no doubt, discussing the degeneracy of 
their race — a la Darwin. 

Here was a white tribe, and a black tribe, who 
have been cutting and slashing each other with- 
out mercy, or an appeal for it, while the parent 
race of both was living in peace and harmony in 
yonder caves, looking wise and lamenting the 
degeneracy of their descendants since they 
eschewed the tail and learned to walk upright, 
conquer the weak and legalize murder. 

Some characteristics still remain, which are 
common to both. Some of the human monkeys 
live by theft. All of the old stock are thieves 
by birth and education. 

After dinner the next evening, and while in- 
dulging in a cigar or the meerchaum pipe, the 
ominous reports that were coming in from Africa 
were discussed pro and con. 

We had just got our orders to embark for 
Durban. Cetewayo was giving trouble and con- 
ditions were becoming unbearable. There were 


146 


The Dawn 


some troops in Cape Colony, of course, but 
every British soldier knows that the slow mov- 
ing machinery of the government never gets 
into proper working order till the first handful 
of men which has been sent out to uphold the 
prestige of the “war department” has been 
wiped out, and their blood, acting as a lubricant 
on that chronically rusty machine, an army is 
sent out to exonerate it and uphold the dignity 
of “the government.” 

Some very important news must certainly 
have reached the government, as regiment after 
regiment was being embarked every day for 
“the Cape,” or to Durban. Lord Chelmsford 
was appointed commander-in-chief, with some 
civil powers, as well, and was now collecting a 
little army to enforce them. 

Our chief worry now was, would we reach the 
scene in time to get into the melee? 

There was a force of five or six thousand men, 
of all arms, there now; the question was, will 
they be strong enough to crush Cetewayo be- 
fore reinforcements arrive, or will they be driven 
unsupported to overwhelming defeat, as the 
handful of European troops had been, during 
the Sepoy rebellion, and those with Gordon at 
Kartoum ? 

Some governments act very much like the 
average prize-fighter, who declares that he can 
lick the other party to the deal with one hand 
tied behind his back, but, after the first round he 


The Mess-Murder 


147 


finds out that he has use for both hands, and 
even then, with his unquestioned reputation for 
staying qualities, he wins in the twenty-third 
round, with two black eyes and other minor dis- 
figurements. 

We did not forget that the Zulu was handi- 
capped as to reach and hitting ability. His only 
weapon being a spear, or assagai, against the 
then modern “Martini Henry rifle.” We failed 
to take into consideration their numbers, their 
knowledge of the country and their wonderful 
mobility, so we, like the government, expected 
too much from that brave handful of men, in an 
unknown wilderness, and “Isandhlwana” was 
the consequence, the end was the same though, 
ultimate victory and another hero to worship; 
but the men, ah ! there a-re new soldiers born 
every day, and before breakfast, at that. 

We had been regaled for an hour or more by 
tales of war and scenes of heroism and 
blood by the older officers, who had smelled 
powder and felt that thrill which causes every 
drop of blood to tingle and every nerve to be- 
come taut, as the savage nature of man — curbed 
in some degree by education and the refining in- 
fluences of woman — breaks the bounds, and he 
becomes, for the time being, an animal, bent 
upon slaughter. That same warlike spirit is in 
his horse, bred to war, from the dawn of history 
— and before — his nostrils widely distended, his 
mouth open, his head eagerly -stretched forward, 


148 


The Dawn 


his ears lying back, his eyes wicked and blood- 
shot, his every instinct alert for the awful clash, 
when, 

‘‘The earth is covered thick with other clay 
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent. 
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.” 

And he pulls on the bit in his eagerness for 
the fray. 

We youngsters — of course — longed to experi- 
ence the first shock of actual war. 

That subject being exhausted, we commenced 
telling stories of home and peace. Here was a 
chance for us youngsters to distinguish our- 
selves. 

The colonel, as a matter of course, started by 
telling of a cockney commercial traveler, who 
came to his home town, a year or so before. The 
builders of the railroad — to save money, I sup- 
pose — instead of running the line into the heart 
of the town, through a swamp, had built it 
around the swamp, and, as a consequence, the 
depot was a mile from the hotels, at least. 

The town being small, the traveler naturally 
supposed that the hotel would be “just a step” 
from the depot, and refusing the proffered ride 
on a jaunting car — “for a shillen, sor” — started 
to walk. He had a heavy satchel in either hand. 
As he plodded on, furlong after furlong, with no 
hotel in sight, his choler began to rise, and the 
sweat to fall; each furlong added about a ton, 


The Mess-Murder 


149 


more or less, to the weight of his load, but he 
doggedly plodded on, determined to carry them 
without rest or stop, to the hotel. Another fur- 
long and a choice oath began to drop, rhyth- 
mically, with each heavy footfall. At last, al- 
most ready to drop, he turned a corner and 
bumped into the colonel’s father, who happened 
to be passing. 

The cockney, never overpolite, was in this 
case fuming, and did not even excuse himself, 
but, dropping both satchels with a thud, ex- 
claimed : 

“Cawn you direct me to the blasted, bloomin’ 
’otel of this bloody town?” 

The old gentleman pointed out the hotel and 
offered to carry one of the satchels, but the 
cockney must relieve his mind, or bust. He be- 
rated the “Oirish” generally, as a nation of 
block’eads and blunderers, and wound up by de- 
manding “W’y the bloody ’ell any railroad com- 
pany or their wooden’ead engineers ’ad so little 
brains h’as to build the railroad station out on a 
bloomink farm ?” 

The old gentleman said it did look stupid, 
but as the company and its engineers were all 
English, and, consequently, well balanced men- 
tally, they undoubtedly thought it would be far 
more “convaynient” to the ‘‘thracks” there. The 
old gentleman made a joke, Irish-fashion, unin- 
tentionally, and the cockney, English-fashion, 
has probably not seen the point of the joke yet. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


REST IN PEACE. 

When my turn to tell a story came, I related 
my experience of the previous night telling them 
at the same time that I placed all the responsi- 
bility on the cook and his rarebit. They agreed 
with me, and as nearly every one present had 
had a nightmare from the same cause, I simply 
got credit for a nightmare — well groomed. 

Then in the middle of the congratulations for 
a well-told tale, we were startled by the ringing 
command. 

‘‘Guard turn out and Lieutenant Humph- 
rey’s voice filled the square with lusty reso- 
nance. We hastily put on our belts and side- 
arms and started toward the commotion. 

As we reached the guard-house, the clatter 
of the butts of carbines on the flags, as the guard 
fell in, greeted us, the colonel demanded the 
cause of the unusual midnight alarm. Humph- 
rey, who was officer of the guard, approached 
and told him that a foul murder had been com- 
mitted, and that he had ordered every avenue 
of escape for the perpetrator guarded, that he 
was about to surround every building inside the 
barrack walls when we arrived. The colonel 
told him that he had done exactly right, and 
150 


Rest in Peace 


151 

ordered the movement to be completed. When 
every hiding place had been thoroughly 
searched, without result, Humphrey was called 
on by the colonel for a detailed statement of the 
case. 

He told us that a beautiful young woman had 
walked into his room, describing her at the 
same time substantially as I had done, a short 
time before, in the mess. He stated that he had 
followed her down the corridor, just as I had 
done, but instead of going into the strong-room 
herself, as I had seen her do, she was struck 
down by an assassin in the corridor, and was 
then carried in, dead. 

A man dressed in the regimentals of a hun- 
dred years ago had stolen softly behind her, he 
had then grasped her by the hair, pulling her 
head backwards, at the same time drawing a 
large knife across her throat. The blood gushed 
from the awful wound in torrents, as she fell 
backward, when he plunged the knife again and 
again into her bosom. 

‘T rushed on him then, drawing my sword as 
I did so,” continued Humphrey, “and plunged 
it up to the hilt in what looked like a human 
body, but there was absolutely no resistance 
till the point of the sword struck the wall with 
such force that it bent back like a hoop till the 
point and hilt were together, and it sprung out 
of my hand. I immediately recovered it and 
dashed to the attack again, just as the man dis- 


152 


The Dawn 


appeared into the cell with the dead woman in 
his arms. He immediately reappeared and 
walked absolutely through me, or over me, 
dashing the candle out of my hand. When I 
found and relit it he was gone.” 

He asked us to go to the cell with him and see 
for ourselves the pool of blood that was in the 
corridor outside the cell. 

When we reached the place the flags were 
clean and dry, and there was not a sign of any- 
thing out of the usual having occurred there in 
a century. We entered the cell, but it, too, was 
dry and musty from disuse. 

Poor Humphrey was more frightened than I 
had been, as his experience had been more reab 
istic. I was not so sure^ after the whole thing 
was over, that it was not a dream, but he could 
not forget that it is not usual to engage in sword 
exercise in a dream, and there was the puncture 
in the stone where the sword had struck it like 
a cold chisel, and with about the same result, so 
he had pretty good evidence that he had been 
wide awake. 

He had seen that burlesque of an old tragedy, 
and he believed it real. 

The colonel and all the rest of us had about 
arrived at the conclusion that a tragedy had oc- 
curred there in the past, and we resolved to find 
out when and how it had happened and by 
whom perpetrated, if we had to dig up all the 


Rest in Peace 


153 

old mouldy records of the place since it was 
built. 

The next morning we started the inquiry by 
calling in a lot of the very old men of the neigh- 
borhood and requesting them to tell us all the 
traditions of the place. We saw that the usual 
caution and reticence of men who might be taken 
to task later by their neighbors, who might ac- 
cuse the talkative ones of being too free in giv- 
ing information to the ‘"sodgers” prevailed. Sin- 
gly, they would have been glib enough, but to- 
gether they were over cautious. 

I advised the colonel to tell them the whole 
story, knowing that if you tell a good ghost 
story in Ireland you will soon know everything 
pertaining to the supernatural that had occurred 
in that town since “the mimory o’ man.” 

When I told them the story in all its grue- 
someness, an old fellow of seventy-five, told us 
that his father knew the sodger well, who had 
been suspected of murdering his wife and a 
young officer of the regiment. His account of 
the affair was substantially this : 

Away back in ’98, during those awful days of 
rebellion, “whin min’s loives were not worth a 
traneen,” a Scotch regiment had been stationed 
here. One of the captains, who was a man of 
loose morals, had married a beautiful young 
girl who was heiress to a large fortune. She 
had married without her father’s consent, how- 
ever, and he had disinherited her. When this 


154 


The Dawn 


captain found that he would get nothing from 
her father’s estate, he commenced to treat her 
brutally, accusing her of all sorts of misdeeds 
and indecencies. 

At that time one of the gentlemen farmers of 
the neighborhood had been tried and found 
guilty of complicity in the rebellion, and had 
been “transported” and his lands had been given 
to a “loyalist,” who was “planted” there. 

A company of soldiers, commanded by the 
wife-beating captain, had been detailed to guard 
him. The captain made love to the daughter of 
this man, and as neither father nor daughter 
could venture out, they had no means of learn- 
ing that the captain was already married, so he 
proposed and was accepted. 

As the lady was an only child, rich in her own 
name, as well as being the heiress to her fa- 
ther’s wealth, there was small fear of her hus- 
band losing out this time. The captain got 
another officer of his own ilk to assist him in the 
conspiracy. Their plans were laid so well that 
there was no chance of failure. This new officer 
took the captain’s place at the mansion for a few 
days, while he went back to the barrack. The 
next night, after his return to the barrack, his 
wife disappeared suddenly, so did a dashing 
young officer about whose conduct with her, her 
husband had often hinted. The report went out 
that they had eloped, and the thing was so 
plausible that every one believed it. 


Rest in Peace 


155 


The captain had no trouble in securing a di- 
vorce, when he immediately married the other 
woman. 

The strangest thing about the case was, that 
the officer who had assisted the rascal in carry- 
ing out his plans, disappeared also, and was 
never heard of afterwards, so he told no tales. 

A few years afterwards, and while the captain 
was with his regiment in America, the body of 
the young officer who was supposed- to have 
eloped was found, in full uniform, buried be- 
neath the stables in the peaty soil, and from that 
day to this, ‘‘the woman in silk” has appeared to 
every new officer on his first night on guard 
duty at the barrack, but never twice to the same 
man. 

We called in some laborers and had them 
take up the flags of the floor of the cell and dig 
down beneath. At a depth of six feet they 
found the remains of a woman, well preserved 
by the chemicals of the peaty bed in which she 
had been laid. The rings and other gold orna- 
ments were absolutely as good as when placed 
there. The remains were buried in consecrated 
ground and “the woman in silk” has never been 
seen since. 

Her murderer was killed by the Indians after 
being subjected to the tortures of the damned 
and her cruel murder was avenged. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


ZULULAND— THE RESCUE. 

It is hardly worth while telling how we got to 
Africa. My troop was attached to Column No. 
4, commanded by Colonel, afterwards General 
Buller, and I want to say that no more dashing, 
level-headed officer ever wore a sabre-tasche. 

We had several brushes with the enemy, gave 
and received some hard knocks, and if anybody 
tells you that the Zulu is incapable of giving 
hard knocks, tell him that in pictures only is the 
Zulu harmless. We found from the awful evi- 
dences of the first, and our own experiences at 
the second battle of Isandhlwana, that the Zulu 
is a rough customer to handle. 

At the first battle, the ist and 2nd battalions 
of the 24th regiment had been killed to the last 
man, but the evidences of their heroic defence 
was scattered for a mile square, in the thousands 
and thousands of putrid savages, left unburied 
by their comrades. 

The arrogance of a commander who would 
not be advised by men beneath him in rank, but 
far superior in intelligence and experience, was 
the cause of the disaster. 

To successfully battle with the Zulu it is ab- 
solutely essential to know his formation and tac- 
tics. 

The Zulu advances in a formation shaped 

156 


ZuLULAND — T he Rescue 157 

like a new moon with the concave toward the 
enemy. The formation is called an impi. All the 
available men in the field may be in the one 
impi, or several smaller divisions may be in impi 
formations and scattered over a large section of 
country. 

No matter what number of men are formed 
into an impi, the mode of attack is the same. 
They advance on the run, throwing the assagais 
as they advance, the object always being to sur- 
round the enemy. The horns or wings are be- 
ing elongated by the men from the deep center 
running around to the wings, and as the Zulu 
country is mainly composed of hills or kopjes, 
with deep kloofs between, the formation and its 
evolutions were successful till the commanders 
were forced to checkmate the move. An Eng- 
lishman is tenacious in his adherence to prece- 
dent. He is a slow thinker and slower to act. 
An Irishman, on the other hand, is quick-witted, 
grasps the situation in an instant, and takes the 
initiative, regardless of precedent, and as a con- 
sequence, he has been at the head of the British 
army for a century or so. 

Well, the two battalions of the luckless 24th 
were commanded by a slow-moving, plodding 
Englishman, brave, as most of his countrymen 
are, but stubborn, and a slave to precedent. His 
principles were frontal attack, pound the middle, 
don’t mind the ends. He succeeded; he pushed 
the enemy back for a couple of miles, but he 


The Dawn 


158 

was being slowly surrounded, at last entirely 
surrounded. 

The enemy had fifty men to his one; they 
closed in from all sides prepared to lose ten men 
for every one they killed, but instead of ten they 
gave twenty, but the end was the same — two 
battalions wiped out, and twenty times their 
number of the enemy dead. 

When the commander found that he had 
been surrounded he formed rallying square, and 
the last man of the command died there. 

When the column to which I was attached 
marched on that field, three weeks later, we 
found the earth, for a mile, covered with the 
corpses of friend and foe, and, as much for self- 
preservation as for humanity sake, we buried 
them all, and that experience had a peculiar 
bearing on a future venture of mine. 

We found the bodies of Lieutenants Melvin 
and Coughlin together, on the very top of the 
kopje, and we knew they were the last to die. 
Each of them had hold of the flagstaff, and the 
last few minutes must have been desperate, as 
they had a windrow of dead Zulus around them. 

Immediately after burying the dead we were 
attacked by an overwhelming force, but General 
Duller was too good a tactician to allow a repe- 
tition of the last blunder, so he clipped the en- 
emy’s wings with the sabre and tore their center 
to atoms with rifle fire and mountain guns. 

The independent firing was awful in its ef- 


ZuLULAND — T he Rescue 159 

feet. Volley firing gives the enemy a few sec- 
onds to breathe or advance, but independent 
firing running down the line like ripples in a 
flag when the wind is blowing steadily, each 
ripple chasing the last one, but never catching 
up, withers everything in front like a prairie 
fire sweeping onwards, so the enemy was tum- 
bling like ninepins in a bowling alley, only that 
there were no boys needed to set up the pins, 
and the play never stopped. 

I never saw such reckless bravery in my life. 
A cavalry charge is the nearest thing to an 
avenging blast in hell that I can imagine, yet I 
have seen those naked men come to meet it, 
and actually trying to pull the horses down by 
grabbing them by the legs as they reared and 
plunged over and upon them. I have seen them 
plunge their arms into the horse’s open mouth, 
to catch him by the tongue to pull him down. 
Aye, and catching a naked sabre in their bare 
hands, and when fingers or thumb fell of¥, grab- 
bing it with the other hand. 

Good generalship and the steadiness of that 
“thin red line” won out, and the Zulu hordes 
were broken and routed. 

I was appointed on the general’s staff to fill 
a vacancy, caused as all vacancies are caused 
in war. 

I was carrying a dispatch to an advanced out- 
post one day, and when skirting a patch of 
mealies, I was suddenly surrounded by about 


i6o 


The Dawn 


150 Zulus. I tried to make a run for it, firing 
into them with my revolver in my left hand, 
while I had my sword in my right, and was 
guiding the horse with my knees. I hit three 
or four of them, who tried to hang on to the 
galloping horse, whose hoofs did the business 
for a couple more, but a hundred assagais 
hurtled into the poor brute’s neck, sides and 
ffanks, soon brought him down. I got struck 
on the hand with one which split my finger from 
nail to second joint, the hilt of my sword de- 
flecting the spear upward. It hit me in the tem- 
ple, leaving that nice little triangular scar you 
have noticed there. As that last rendered me 
insensible for a time, I woke up to find myself 
under a dead horse, which had rolled into a 
‘‘donga,” pinning me under him or one leg under 
him, rather. 

I wondered why they did not come to finish 
me, as the Zulus leave no wounded when they 
have the field to themselves. I could not see 
what was going on around me, as my head was 
lower than the surrounding ground, but I could 
hear the shouts of the savages as they went 
scurrying by me, then the measured sound of 
galloping horses, one of which actually jumped 
over me; then the swish and whistle of the 
sabres, cleaving the air, and the chug, chug, 
when the cut went home. The whole thing did 
not last two minutes. Finally I heard the horses 
trotting back and the cheering troopers dis- 


ZuLULAND — T he Rescue i6i 

mounting all around. They soon had me on my 
feet, not much the worse, and I knew that I was 
saved. 

The colonel himself was in charge of the 
troop that had come to my rescue. 

‘T saw you, old boy,” he said, ‘Trom a grove 
on a kopje, a few hundred yards away, so when 
those devils got after you we started to your re- 
lief and we didn’t get here any too soon. You 
did splendid, boy, splendid ! and you made four 
good Zulus before you went down. We saw 
the whole thing, so did the general, who is on 
the hill, and if I am not mistaken you were 
carrying dispatches to him.” 

“No,” I said, “I was carrying dispatches from ' 
him to a place a few miles inland, and he must 
have been right after me.” 

“No use going any farther, my boy; the de- 
tachment you were carrying dispatches to is 
here also, all that is left of it. Those savages 
were so intent on finishing you that they never 
noticed us till we were too close for them to get 
away; then, instead of finishing you, they had 
to defend themselves.” 

Four of the troopers had been killed in the 
melee, and fifteen or sixteen wounded, but all 
of the Zulu band were dead. When we got to 
the crest of the kopje we found the general or 
colonel, who was acting as general. There be- 
ing no such rank as brigadier-general in the 
British army, the senior colonel assumes com- 


i 62 


The Dawn 


mand when three or more regiments are bri- 
gaded, and there is no major-general on the 
ground to take command. When a colonel thus 
assumes command he is at liberty to wear the 
uniform of a general, during the time the force is 
so brigaded. 

He shook hands with me when I came up, and 
told me that he would report my conduct favor- 
ably. I found, too, that the colonel who had 
come to rescue me was no other than the father 
of little Julia Darcy. 

I had never met him before, and did not know 
that he had been promoted. When he learned 
who I was he was delighted, and told the general 
of my boyhood experience with his little daugh- 
ter, on the mountain. 

I had rendered him a service that was in- 
significant, and had practically no danger at- 
tached to it. What he had done for me was the 
greatest service that one man can render to an- 
other, that of giving me back the life that was 
forfeit, and risking his own in the giving. I felt 
that I was deeply in his debt, but I was glad of it. 
It is a pleasure to owe your life to a brave man, 
who is never a usurer. 

The next battle in which I participated was 
at ‘‘Ginghilovo,” and, as Lord Chelmsford was 
about to be replaced by General Wolseley, he 
made up his mind to leave little for the latter to 
do, so we drove the enemy all along the line, 
giving him no time to rest or recuperate, finally 
smashing his power forever, at “Ulundi.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


ULUNDl— PAYING A DEBW. 

The battle of Ulundi was the fiercest of the 
war, all the available forces of both combatants 
taking part in it. We had about ten thousand 
men, and the Zulu forces were variously esti- 
mated at from seventy to eighty thousand. 

The battle was fought over and around a 
succession of hills covered with small timber 
and underbrush. Our scouts had located the 
enemy by the tens of thousands in this under- 
brush, and had also reported that the “mealie- 
fields’' were swarming with them. 

We had several mountain batteries, carried by 
pack-mules — those big sixteen and seventeen- 
hand fellows from Spain. These guns were used 
to good advantage in a searching fire. The 
enemy finally concentrated his forces in several 
impis on the ground from which the battle de- 
rives its name. 

The “Cameran Highlanders'' and '‘The Third 
Buffs" advanced in open order for the purpose 
of drawing the enemy out of cover, and feeling 
his strength, retiring slowly, as he advanced. 
The Zulu was never slow to follow up what he 
supposed to be a defeated enemy. Our guns 
opened on him as he advanced, cutting great 
gaps in his close formed “impis." He kept on 
163 


164 


The Dawn 


advancing, however, in the face of a murderous 
rifle fire. He knew that his only chance for 
success lay in a hand to hand engagement, so he 
rushed to the attack, regardless of his enormous 
losses. 

That “thin, red line” kept on pumping death 
into his ranks, but he never wavered. The artil- 
lery, too, was doing terrible execution, and the 
cavalry harassing his flanks. I was sent with an 
order to the commander on our right to try an 
enveloping movement round the enemy’s left 
flank. That movement brought on the worst 
half hour of the day, or the war. The infantry 
advanced at the double, and as they approached 
a large mealie field, thousands of the enemy 
burst like a huge wave out of the tall, green 
stalks, and bayonets and assagai met in an 
awful clash that beggars description. Our men 
were driven back by the awful force of numbers 
and the air was full of hurtling spears, which 
were coming from all directions at once. When 
our men had been forced well into the open a 
regiment of cavalry which had taken a wide 
detour came with the force of a mighty ava- 
lanche from the mealie field, in the enemy’s rear, 
and he was engaged in a hand to hand struggle 
in front and rear. I was with the cavalry, and, 
as the enemy broke for the shelter of the 
mealies, our men pursued them clean through 
the field, and coming out on the far side, were 
met by a fresh impi, which dashed recklessly 


Ulundi — Paying A Debt 165 

among the horses, whose close order was some- 
what disarranged by pursuing detached bodies 
of the enemy in the tall stalks. 

I saw Colonel Darcy fall, with an assagai 
quivering in his side, and a dozen Zulus rushing 
in to finish him. When he fell his horse kept 
on with his companions, and the colonel was 
alone. I was within fifty yards of him when he 
fell, and, putting spurs to my horse, I dashed to 
his side, and as I reached him I was joined by 
his orderly, who had also seen him fall. Both of 
us used our revolvers, and, as defeat was in the 
air for the Zulu that day, we beat off his oppo- 
nents. Between us we got him on my horse, 
behind me. Another lot of the enemy attacked 
us, and in a minute the orderly was killed and I 
had received a wound that put me out of active 
service for the balance of the war. An assagai 
had penetrated my thigh ; it went so deep in the 
flesh that the shaft stood straight out, quivering 
as a knife does when thrown point foremost 
into a board. It touched the sciatic nerve and 
the pain was excruciating. The colonel told me 
to drop him, as he was wounded to death any- 
way, and he was about to throw himself off the 
horse, so I could have a better chance to escape, 
but I told him to hold on or I would go with 
him. I was swaying in the saddle and had given 
up all hope, when an Irish cheer rent the air, as 
only an Irish cheer can, and twenty men of my 
own troop, including three of the bravest I 


i66 


The Dawn 


have ever known, Sergeant McIntyre, Johnson 
and Reilly, came up with a rush, and placing us 
in the center, cut their way out, but at an awful 
cost, the sergeant and ten of the troopers being 
killed. The colonel and I were taken to the 
hospital and laid on adjoining cots. The colo- 
nel’s wound was in the liver and kidney, and his 
case was hopeless from the start, and he knew 
it. He requested the Sister of Charity, who was 
attending us, to pull his cot close to mine so 
that he could talk to me while the state of his 
wound would permit. 

He was sinking fast and the awful yellow 
palor of death, accentuated by the fact that his 
liver had been injured, made his face look ter- 
rible in its agony. He requested me to draw 
this ring you see me wearing from his finger 
and put it on mine, to be worn there always in 
remembrance of him. He gave me his watch 
and all his trinkets to bring home to his wife 
and little daughter. 

“I feel, Durand,” he said, “that my time is 
short. I like you, boy. I liked you before I 
had ever seen you. My wife and little Julia were 
never tired talking about you, and of what a fine, 
manly little fellow you used to be. I learned 
of the strenuous night 3^011 spent taking care of 
the little one, and I was the happiest man in 
Africa the day on which my brave boys rescued 
you in the nick of time.” 

“On which you rescued me,” I interrupted. 


Ulundi — Paying A Debt 


167 

'‘Well! no matter now, I want to ask you to 
tell my wife and Julia how I died.’’ 

An awful spasm of pain seizing him, he could 
not speak for a long time, and when he did speak 
again it was in gasping monosyllables. 

“Durand ! if ever — the time — comes — when 
my — little daughter — needs a friend — and — you 
— are — near, — I want — you — to act — as you — 
think — I — would act. I — know — that — I — can 
— depend — on — you.” 

“You can, colonel,” I said; “I owe her the 
life that you preserved; when you are gone her 
distress will be all the call that will be neces- 
sary.” 

He was getting cold now, and death was ap- 
proaching fast; his lips were dry and cracked, 
and the good Sister was keeping them wet. She 
brought an Episcopalian minister to him. After 
he had prayed with him for a considerable time, 
the colonel dismissed him, and, taking my hand, 
held it to the end. 

He lay there with his eyes closed for a long 
time, and seemed to be in less pain. It was well 
he did not see me just then, as a feeling of 
agony came over me that I never could describe 
to this day. 

I did not know then what it was. I have 
learned since, of course, but I cannot describe 
it now any better than to compare it to an awful 
shock of electricity, that commenced by a con- 
traction or drawing in of all the vital parts of 


i68 


The Dawn 


my left side, and around the “lumbar plexus, 
then starting down my leg to the toes and up and 
down again, in undulating torture, for ten 
minutes or so in actual time, but ten centuries 
of torture. I shut my teeth and almost drove 
them back into the gums, to hold back the 
screams I felt like uttering. When the condi- 
tion stopped my left leg and foot were cold and 
stiff, and dead, and after twenty years of tor- 
ture and the expenditure of thousands of dol- 
lars, I found a cure so simple that I laughed 
when my wife asked me to try it. I did try it, 
just to please her, and the sciatica is gone. 

When the colonel opened his eyes again, I 
managed to hide my own trouble so as not to 
disturb the few minutes he had to live. 

A slight pressure of his hand gave me the 
information that he still knew I was with him, 
and, as the death rattle began to sound in his 
throat, he feebly said in rasping whispers : 

“Tell — Mary — that — I — died — with — 
her — name — on — my — lips — and — the — 
sweet — little — Jul — ” and, he was gone. 

And I must tell the loved ones how he died. 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE CAMP— THE PACKAGE FROM IRELAND— SONG. 

I recovered from my wounds remarkably 
quick and had rejoined my regiment, which was 
doing garrison and patrol duty in Zululand 
pending the signing and ratification of treaties. 

We still had quite a few brushes with the 
irreconcilables, who, led by petty chiefs, often 
attacked small detachments of our men. It so 
happened that we had an Irish, an English and 
a Scotch regiment, all infantry, and my regi- 
ment of cavalry, which was made up from men 
belonging to all three countries. 

The officers had no way of amusing them- 
selves and killing time, except by playing 
cricket, hunting the lion and tiger, at the card 
table, or dallying over the wine and cigars, or 
the more comfort-producing pipe and grasscut. 
So the ennui of an “Eveless Eden” was intense. 
We had few papers or magazines, and prac- 
tically no books. I used to amuse myself by 
writing scraps of verse, fair, bad, and very bad, 
on every conceivable subject, grave, gay, and 
nonsensical, and this predilection for rhyming 
kept me in hot water most of the time. 

Every fellow who wanted to write to his 
flame, at home, in Durban, or in Capetown, had 
me pestered for verses, on eyebrows, dainty lit- 

169 


The Dawn 


170 

tie feet, taper fingers and fairy forms, till I got 
tired of being poet-laureate to Her Majesty’s 
forces. 

The greatest load that was placed on my poor 
shoulders occurred on the day before St. Pat- 
rick’s Day, and long into the night, too. 

My orderly, and another young trooper be- 
longing to my troop, had been brought up near 
my home and had known me since I was a boy. 
One of them was a “Catholic,” the other a 
Protestant. The Protestant — James Johnson — 
was my orderly, the other — Peter Reilly — his 
inseparable companion from childhood. They 
got into the army in a peculiar manner. John- 
son got full in town and had enlisted, the boy- 
hood friend went to town next day, and, while 
calm and sober, accepted the shilling and fol- 
lowed him into uniform. Their delight was 
great, when they found themselves drafted into 
my troop, and I was just as glad, because they 
were both decent boys from decent families, and 
I knew that I could trust them under any and all 
circumstances. 

I could have chosen either, but I would not 
discriminate between them, so they drew lots to 
see which should be my orderly, and Johnson 
won, and I had practically two orderlies. 

On St. Patrick’s eve, Reilly came to my room, 
and after saluting, stood there like a pillar of 
salt, at attention, waiting for the privilege of 
speaking, as if he had never seen me before. 


The Camp 


171 

I said, “Sit down, Peter, I hope there is noth- 
ing wrong at home; you look worried.” 

‘T am worried, your honor,” he said, “but not 
about home, as iverything was all right there 
when I heard from it last. I got purty good 
news from near home this morning,” and draw- 
ing a little perforated box from the breast of his 
tunic, he took off the cover and handed it to 
me and to my surprise, and delight, there was 
a beautiful bunch of .the greenest shamrocks I 
had ever seen, outside of Ireland. They looked 
as if they had been plucked yesterday. They 
were surrounded with damp moss, and I could 
almost tell where it grew. 

“Who on earth did you get them from? and 
how on earth were they kept so fresh?” I asked. 

“I got them from Mary McShane ! and they 
were brought here by one of a batch of recruits 
who have just arrived,” he said. “You remem- 
ber Sally McShane, who used to be Alice 
Devere’s maid, I suppose,” he continued. 

“Yes,” I returned, “I remember her.” 

“Well! Mary is her sister, you see!” he con- 
tinued; “they left the fresh soil on them, and the 
boy who brought them kept them wet and 
fresh.” 

“So! pretty little Mary McShane is your 
sweetheart?” I enquired. 

“She is, and I didn’t know it till I ’listed; we 
went to school together at Mulick, and we only 
found out that we were gone on each other 


172 


The Dawn 


when I was going away. She says that Mrs. 
O’Donnell, who used to be Alice Devere, put 
some of those shamrocks in for you, but I was 
warned to say nothing about it to you. I can see 
no reason, however, why I should not tell you, as 
yourself and Mrs. O’Donnell went to school to- 
gether, and it will remind you of ould times — 
mebbe” — and it did ! 

He twirled his forage cap uneasily, and I 
could see that there was something he wanted 
to say, but was backward in saying it, so I called 
him back, when he hung around the door for a 
while. 

“Peter,” I said, “there is something you want 
to say to me, now don’t be backward, my boy, 
say it.” 

“I wanted to ax you for a great favor. Lieu- 
tenant,” he said. 

“Well, Peter, I will grant it, if it is in my 
power.” 

“As your honor is the only man in the regi- 
ment that can write a song, I wanted to ax you 
to write me one to sing in the canteen the night 
when we are ‘drounding’ those shamrocks.” 

“Well, Peter, taking into consideration who 
asks it, and that those shamrocks are to be the 
subject, I will try, particularly as there are no 
‘Scotch Reviewers’ liable to be in attendance 
when you are singing it.” 

It appeared that Peter had distributed the 
shamrocks among friends of his, regardless of 


The Camp 


173 


their nationality, and they were to have a “jam- 
boree” in the canteen. A man from each coun- 
try was to sing a song typical of his country 
and topical as regarded his present surround- 
ings, and that at the windup all present were to 
sing the old Irish song, “The Shamrock.” 

In less than an hour, Johnson was begging me 
to write a song for a Scotch friend. 

The colonel had just given permission for an 
out-door concert, and the unengaged men of all 
four regiments were to take part. 

The three national songs were to be the great 
event, and, as it was already all over the camp 
that I was writing a song for Reilly, he wanted 
me to write one for his friend as well. As I was 
evidently in for it, I thought I might as well 
grant his request. I was expecting somebody 
to come asking one for an Englishman, and I 
did not have long to wait. Humphrey, he of the 
“Lady in Silk” fame, came in, and getting to 
business quickly, said: 

“Dount you know ! Durand, I am a daumned 
poor poet. If I wanted bun to rhyme with fun, 
I would have one ‘cake’ and the other ‘pleasure,’ 
when written. Now, I am told that you have 
consented to write one for the Oirishman, and 
one for the Scotchman, daummit man ! be a good 
fellow, don’t ye know, and wroite one for my 
fellow as well.” 

“Well! Humphrey, if you will report the mat- 


174 


The Dawn 


ter all over camp that I have a sick headache, I 
will do the best I can for you. 

“And for heaven’s sake put a guard at my 
door, so that if a Welshman comes have him 
tried by drum-head court martial and shot. I 
never in this world could get I’s and y’s and w’s 
to mix and rhyme at the same time, so I want 
no Welsh to rack my brain and ruin my nervous 
system.” 

I used up enough paper to copy “Moore’s 
Melodies” and “Paradise Lost” in their construc- 
tion, and after wrestling all night with “steps,” 
and rhyme, and rhythm, I produced what I 
thought would pass muster with my not too 
critical critics. 

All the officers not actually on duty went to 
hear the great union vaudeville performance. 
There were tables and camp chairs and all kinds 
of things “commandeered” to make seats for 
the occasion, and I must say that the perform- 
ance was fine. We had in each regiment no end 
of performers who had actually “trod the 
boards” in the dance-halls of London and the 
other cities, and amateurs were as thick as the 
grass. Here was a farmer with his quaint folk 
song, and there a costermonger with his droll 
comicalities. 

At dusk everything was ready and the per- 
formance commenced. Nobody would believe 
that “among this mass of de’il may cares,” to 
use the language of our star performer — Sandy 


The Camp 


175 


Ferguson — picked up at a shilling apiece, any 
place and every place, such a set of real enter- 
tainers could be gotten together. 

This same Sandy Ferguson was a wonder. 
He played a violin with divers sounds made by 
diaphragm, throat and lips accompanying it. 
With this individual orchestra he could imitate 
any instrument from which music could be pro- 
duced, or tortured, on earth. 

His imitation of the soul stirring harmony of 
the great church organ was the most beautiful 
thing ever heard outside of a church. 

Sandy was not what one might call a beauty, 
as his face showed the evidences of having re- 
ceived hard knocks, but you lost sight of the 
man in the artist. I have met Sandy in this 
country since, and I would go a hundred miles 
any time to hear his imitations of the different 
bugle calls, the Highland pipes or the church 
organ. After Sandy had answered about a 
dozen encores, Peter Reilly stepped on the im- 
provised stage, and with the little box from 
which trailed a long wreath of shamrocks in his 
hand, commenced to sing in a beautifully modu- 
lated voice, which seemed to have enough in- 
spiration in it to make the poorly constructed 
song appear actually good. Anyway, it set the 
whole crowd wild with enthusiasm, and I must 
confess that I was not in Africa while he was 
singing it. I was back in Ireland, flying over 
every well known spot around Belleek, and as 


176 


The Dawn 


he finished, I woke up from my day dream, in the 
heart of Africa again, and as I did, a big sob 
escaped me and I brushed off a furtive tear. 

REILLY’S SONG. 

Here’s a dear little plant in this package from 
Ireland, 

Fresh and green as my love for the land where 
it grew; 

And the dear hand that plucked it from meadow 
or mireland 

Belongs to no other, my sweetheart, but you. 
I know ’twas that hand placed the damp moss 
around it. 

That hand wrote the note that was pinned on 
it, too; 

With this ribbon so green, too, I know that 
hand bound it 

And wrote, “From your sweetheart, a sham- 
rock for you.” 

Demurely unfolding its leaves in the morning, 

To the smiles of the sun as he laps up the dew. 
And with beauty and freshness the landscape 
adorning. 

As the world with sweet smiles has been 
brightened by you. 

Its little leaves, soft as the touch of your fingers, 

Sends a thrill to my heart of remembrance of 
thee; 


The Camp 


177 

Ah ! how could my mem’ry prove false while it 
lingers 

With you and the dear spot it came from 
to me? 

The regiment's cheers are the thanks that I’ll 
send you, 

They’re echoing now o’er the veldt and the 
sea; 

Not a hand nor a sabre but’s pledged to defend 
you 

For your green bunch of shamrocks for them 
and for me. 

On the veldt, ’neath the sun, with the foeman 
before us. 

We think of the land where these dear sham- 
rocks grew. 

And hope that kind fate will protect and restore 
us 

To our dear mother Ireland and angels like 
you. 

The colonel of my regiment came over to me 
and shook my hand warmly, and I could see an 
unusual dimness in his eyes as he said, “Durand, 

I thank you for giving us that song, and I can 
assure you that this is not the last time it will 
be heard in the British army.” 

A big Scotchman stepped to the front of the 
stage, and in the broadest Scotch manufactured 
in “The Heelands” began to sing from the 


178 


The Dawn 


manuscript of the song Johnson had coaxed 
from me, and, lover of Burns as he was, he 
drew on Moore for an air for it, so to the air 
of “Believe me if all those endearing young 
charms,” he sang it thus : 

THE BANNOCK MY HITHER MADE ME. 

I came frae the Heelands o’ Bonnie Scotland, 
Where the heather-bells perfume the air, 
Where each dear little lass i’ the kilt o’ her clan 
Is bonnie and sprightly and fair. 

I tramped o’er the mountains while stalkin’ the 
deer, 

The cald wynd braucht the tears tae my e’e. 
As I lunched i’ the glan when the evenin’ drew 
near 

Frae the bannock my mither made me. 

Noo a’m stalkin’ the Zulu frae mornin’ till nicht. 
And the deil o’ a Zulu stalks me. 

When we meet i’ the kloof, we’ve a heil o’ a 
ficht 

And ane or the ither maun dee. 

At the tail o’ the day, when the fichtin’ is o’er 
And a’m thinkin’ o’ closin’ an e’e, 

I munch at the hard-tack wi’ gums that are sair. 
Not the bannock my mither made me. 

There’s a lassie that’s waitin’ for me over there 
By the beautiful banks o’ the Dee, 


The Camp 


179 

And the wee bairnie sister wi’ long curly hair 

Longs to crowl upon brither Jock’s knee, 

But a’m gae’n to get marri’d whene’er I gae 
hame 

Tae the lass wi’ the lo’e in her e’e, 

And we’ll live on the brose and the wild moun- 
tain game 

And those bannocks my mither made me. 

After this song there was some more instru- 
mental music, then Sandy Ferguson came to the 
front again; this time he nearly broke up the 
performance. 

There were several detachm.ents of “The Black 
Watch” away inland on the “Limpopo River,” 
so when he gave an imitation of the call of the 
Black Watch — at a distance — it was so wonder- 
fully realistic that a bugler who was on duty, 
and did not know of the imitations, thought it 
was the real thing and a call for assistance, so 
he there and then sounded a cavalry call that 
sent every man scurrying to his horse. 

When we found the mistake we resumed the 
performance. 

The next thing on the program was the Eng- 
lish song, and a little fat Englishman from the 
hop fields of Kent came forward. You could 
tell by his rotundity and by the indescribable 
look of drollery on his face that he had been 
stall-fed on the home-brewed ale of that locality. 
He bowed as gracefully as he could, taking into 


i8o 


The Dawn 


consideration his girth and the danger of the 
belt, or the man beneath it bursting. He kept 
time with his little fat hand as he half chanted, 
half sang, costermonger fashion and using the 
tune of one of the coster songs, this thing that I 
had written in the gray dawn of the morning, 
while blinking over each word and nodding at 
the end of each line. 


GLORY JOHNNY BULL-ERUM. 

Wen Oi was ’ome, Oi was pickin’ of the ’ops in 
Kent, 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man ; 

But now Oi’m ’ere a foightin’ for the guv’ament, 
Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man. 

A saw’gent came an’ chucked a bobby in me 
fist-erum. 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man ; 

E’e says, Ja-ack ! I want y’ to enlist-erum. 
Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man ; 

H’old foightin’ man! h’old foightin’ man. 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man. 

W’en Oi got that shillin’, Oi got blausted, 
bloomin’ drunk-erum. 


The Camp i8i 

4 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man; 

H’it led me to this kopje, that Oi’m usin’ for a 
bunk-erum, 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man; 

They dressed me h’up, put a roifle in me ’an- 
erum, 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man ; 

Got the goose-step first, then a mauchin’ with 
the band-erum. 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man ; 

H’old foightin’ man! h’old foightin’ man! 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man. 


The h’enemy ’as a spear, an ’ee uses h’it like 
’ell-erum. 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man ; 

Wen y’ get one in yer stummick, h’it don’t taste 
a daum bit well-erum. 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man ; 

W’en we go ’ome, we’ll swagger through Oyde 
Park-erum, 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin’ 
man ; 


i 82 


The Dawn 


H’and with the nurse maids, go on many a jolly 
lark-erum, 

Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h^old foightin' 
man ; 

H'old foightin’ man! h'old foightin' man! 
Glory Johnny Bull-erum, the h’old foightin' 
man. 

The scene was grand when every man in 
camp, from officer to drummer-boy, joined, as if 
with one mighty voice to sing “The Shamrock.” 

“Oh, the shamrock, ' 

The green, immortal shamrock. 

Chosen leaf of bard and chief, 

Old Erin's native shamrock.'' 

And that grand chorus went rumbling and 
reverberating through the hills. 

We lay there about three months longer, then 
marched into Natal and to “Maritzburg,” where 
we lay till the breaking out of the Boer war. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


MAJUBA HILL. 

I have read so many distorted accounts of the 
battle of Majuba Hill, caused in part by preju- 
dice but largely on account of dense ignorance 
of the whole affair. I have heard men discussing 
that affair who did not know whether it was 
north or south of the equator. I have listened 
to criticisms on the actions of the British sol- 
diers there, by men who could not tell the dif- 
ference between a rear-guard action and a right 
about face, and whose only claim to a knowledge 
of war was acquired by being shot by a toy 
pistol on the Fourth of July, or being “held up” 
by a thug on pay day, or by reading the sage 
advice given to gray-headed generals by the boy 
reporters on a penny newspaper. 

I was not through much of the actual fighting 
during the Boer war, until about a month be- 
fore Majuba Hill was reached. I carried the 
despatches to General Colley which promised 
him reinforcements and ordered him to keep 
up a rear-guard action and retard the southward 
march of the Boers as much as possible till the 
reinforcements could arrive. 

In reaching General Colley’s position I was 
guided by friendly kaffirs and had some narrow 
183 


184 


The Dawn 


escapes from the ubiquitous Boers, but I got 
through all right. 

As I was a staff officer and was not expected 
to return after delivering my despatches, I was 
immediately attached to the little force of Gen- 
eral Colley. We mustered altogether 1,100 men 
of all arms, and we kept up a rear-guard action 
for a week with a force large enough to eat us. 
We had been waiting and watching all that time 
for the reinforcements that were never sent to 
our succor. The Boer does not fight like any 
other man on earth. The American Indian 
comes nearer to his style as a fighter than any 
other organized force I have any knowledge of. 

When you fight the Boer you are in an anal- 
ogous position to the rabbit hunter, who is try- 
ing to bag some game in an old rabbit warren 
without a ferret, with the added disadvantage 
of knowing that each rabbit has a rifle and 
knows how to use it, and that each one knows 
every burrow and crook and crannie in the 
whole countryside; that he stays in the burrow 
and shoots out, and that when you approach 
too close for comfort, he is sure to scurry off to 
another burrow. The fact of your being blind, 
or lame, or hungry, or out of ammunition, will 
not induce him to come out, so long as you have 
a bayonet, an arm, by the way, that the Boer 
does not use or relish ; it needs a too close ac- 
quaintance for the boorish and inhospitable 
Boer, hence his name. He is not what you 


Majuba Hill 


185 

would call a manly opponent, if you were a 
trained soldier yourself ; but if you happened to 
be a thug, or had learned your tactics from the 
Indians, you would fall down and worship him. 

No matter how much he may outnumber you, 
no matter how much better he can shoot than 
you, no matter how tired he knows you to be, or 
how fresh he feels, he will never meet you in an 
open fight; his only method of fighting is to 
shoot and run; he depends on the geographical 
extent of Africa, and the limit to your endurance 
for his successes. 

The only time I ever knew a Boer to take any 
chances on having his hide punctured, was when 
he could take an unequal advantage of you by a 
surprise. He figured then on the momentary 
confusion giving him time for a few volleys be- 
fore he resorted to his masterpiece of strategy, 
taking to his heels. 

He likes the dark and subterranean; he is like 
the thug who pounces on you from some dark 
alley and knocks you on the head with a billy, 
and then ducks back into his Stygian haunt, to 
gloat over his victory. 

I have noticed that the American people, as 
a whole, do not admire that kind of a fighter. 
I have seen no monuments erected in honor of 
the Quantrels, or the Morgans, or any of the 
‘‘bushwhackers’' of “the Civil War,” while the 
names of Washington, and Grant, and Lee, and 
Sherman, and Sheridan, and all the other manly 


The Dawn 


1 86 

heroes are honored by shafts of marble and 
other materials, and their forms reproduced in 
bronze, and perien, and plaster, to be handed 
down to posterity in honor of their brave deeds. 

Such men are, and always will be honored by 
all brave men, while the sun keeps on its diurnal 
course, and the moon reflects its light, and the 
stars twinkle throughout the night. We feel 
the warm blood tingle in our veins, and a pe- 
culiar feeling of admiration permeates our whole 
being, when we read of a meeting between Jap 
and Russ on the slopes around Port Arthur or 
in the millet fields of Manchuria, and our hearts 
swell with pride when we realize that chivalry 
is not dead, and that the name of soldier has not 
deteriorated into a mere synonym for thug or 
assassin. 

On February the 26th, 1881, we found that 
our little force was surrounded in that mountain 
pass by ten times our number of the enemy. 
We had been fighting day and night against an 
enemy that revealed himself only in puffs of 
smoke. We had not a minute’s rest, but fell 
back step by step, expecting every day to hear 
the wild but welcome “skirl o’ the pipes” in the 
cheering strains of “The Campbells are Com- 
ing,” as it was heard by the weary, hopeless, 
fighting, dying defenders of Luckno, when 
they were in an analogous position to ours ; but 
a man of peace was at the helm, and the pipes 
were not tuned to war. So we stepped back 


Majuba Hill 


187 


slowly, facing those white puffs from the sur- 
rounding mountains. We were losing men in 
twos, and threes, and squads, and companies. 
At last Majuba Hill came in sight, with Laing’s 
and Nicholson’s Neks winding around its base. 
We reached it in the night, and our brave com- 
mander ordered the remnant of our little force 
to scale its water furrowed sides. He believed 
that if we could reach its crest, we could hold it 
as long as our ammunition would hold out, or till 
the reinforcements would arrive. Our enemy 
could defend, but he was never known to attack 
a defended position, then or since. 

There was not a man in the command who 
had closed his eyes in sleep for the last four 
days, and Nature was beginning to assert her- 
self, and Nature is a tyrant. 

We were so utterly exhausted that it took all 
night to reach the rocky top of that steep hill. 
Several men, when in the act of crawling up, 
lay still a minute — just a minute — to rest, and 
sleep ; that autocrat seized them and they were 
lost to us, and we reached the top with some 
600 men as the gray streaks of dawn began to 
show through the serrated sky-line of the moun- 
tains to the east of us. 

The general ordered the men to “stack arms” 
and lie down for a couple of hours’ rest. After 
the pickets had been placed around the lip of the 
saucer-like space on top of the hill, the men lay 
down. 


i88 


The Dawn 


The fatal mistake made was in not doubling 
the sentinels, so that companionship would 
keep them awake and on the alert. As it was, 
the poor fellows dropped off as soon as they 
were alone for a few minutes, as only death and 
sleep can make men oblivious to their surround- 
ings. 

When we got to the top of the hill, I missed 
my orderly and his chum — Reilly — and after 
looking through the survivors in vain, I started 
down the hill in search of them. 

When I went about half the distance, I found 
both sound asleep, guided to the spot by their 
snores; while I was trying to wake them, a 
heavy hand was placed on my. shoulder; I drew 
my sword to defend myself from being taken 
prisoner, as I supposed, but to my delight a 
voice that I knew well said ; 

“Put up that knife, Durand, till you can use 
it on your inimies. I saw you starting down, 
and I knew who you were luckin’ for, and as I 
thought my sarvices might come in handy I 
folded ye to help you, and thim, if they were in 
thrubble.” 

“And Surgeon Major McGovern is just the 
kind of man to do just such an act,” I said, tak- 
ing his big, manly hand and pressing it as hard 
as I could. So between us we half dragged, 
half pushed the boys to the top. I knew that 
neither of them had slept for a week. I had 


Majuba Hill 189 

been slightly wounded about a week before, and 
they stayed by me as if I had been a brother. 

When I remonstrated with them, they told me 
that they would not care to meet the people at 
home if anything occurred to me that they could 
prevent. 

As the dawn began to show and those pink 
streaks in the east proclaimed the sun’s ap- 
proach, a wild scrambling sound on the side of 
the hill facing Nicholson’s Nek drew the atten- 
tion of all of the ten officers who had formed a 
group around the general, to get final instruc- 
tions for the morning’s work, and, turning, we 
saw over 1,000 Boers scrambling over the lip 
of our saucer, with rifles aimed at the mass of 
sleeping men. They fired a volley, and the bat- 
tle of Majuba Hill was practically over. The 
men woke up and rushed for their arms, and a 
general fusillade was carried on for a few 
minutes, but the surprise was too perfect and 
the odds too overwhelming, and our force was 
practically all either killed or wounded; to be 
more correct, there were 240 of our force killed 
and about the same number wounded, while the 
Boer loss during that minute of sleepy shooting 
was 130 dead; we never knew how many they 
had wounded. 

As that first volley was fired with the rifles 
pointed downwards at the sleeping men, the 
bullets rebounded off the rocks and sprinkled 


190 


The Dawn 


us in the shins. I got three in my shins, and 
as I went down another went through my body, 
dangerously close to a vital part, and the last 
I remember of Majuba Hill was seeing the 
brains of the general spattered around, and the 
brave Hector MacDonald fighting a big be- 
whiskered Boer with his bare fists. 

That is not the way the thing was described 
in the papers here, but you will remember that 
in ’81 tail twisting was being indulged in by a 
certain section of the press, and the published 
accounts were those supplied by the Boers. 

You will remember that when the last Boer 
war started, the war cry of the British soldier 
was, “Remember Majuber ’ill,” and when the 
first opportunity for revenge presented itself, at 
“Eland’s Laagte,” the Lancers went on that 
little “pig sticking” expedition, and the unneces- 
sary butchery at Majuba Hill was avenged. 

Was it just because 500 men were killed and 
wounded at Majuba, that that pig sticking was 
indulged in? Not at all! It was because of the 
manner in which they were killed and wounded. 
The average British soldier will say, “Whoy 
should I ’ate the poor beggars, we are only ’ere 
to kill them.” 

When soldiers put up a manly fight against 
other soldiers who do the same, there is no 
reason why they should hate each other; they 
have no personal quarrel, they are simply there 
in their professional capacity. It is only the 


Majuba Hill 


191 

undrilled, drafted or volunteer soldier who 
shows a personal enmity towards the enemy, 
just as he would show it in a street brawl, or a 
mountain feud. 

If that “commando” of Boers had known that 
we were on that hill, they would never have 
climbed it. We went up from Laing’s Nek; 
they went up from the nek in the other side. 
When they got to the top and found us there 
ahead of them, they were as much surprised as 
we were, but the peculiar condition as they 
found it, showed them that they were masters 
of the situation. One shot fired by accident or 
design, would have sent them back like rabbits. 

I have often wondered how men, not abso- 
lutely blinded by prejudice or saturated with 
ignorance, could for a* moment harbor the 
thought that 600 men, Irish, English and Scotch, 
with rifles in their hands, bayonets by their sides, 
and not drugged, would allow any number of 
any enemy to climb up there in the face of any 
kind of resistance, without killing or wounding 
a man till they reached the top, yet that was the 
offlcial report. All the Boers who were killed, 
were killed in the saucer. 

The records of both in the last war, should 
settle the matter to the satisfaction of any un- 
prejudiced mind. At Ladysmith the Boers had 
at least 60,000 men, while the British had less 
than one-sixth the number. The Boers stayed 
at a safe distance in the hills and let their foolish 


192 


The Dawn 


allies do the assaulting and leave their bodies to 
mark the spot. 

Baden-Powel, with less than 200 men, held 
Mafaking — a little prairie village, without any 
natural and few artificial defenses — for months 
against an army, and would have held it yet, if 
necessary. Here is the reason: 

The Boer does not use the bayonet, and with- 
out the bayonet no defended position was ever 
taken, or ever will be taken, when soldiers are 
defending it. 

I was taken prisoner with the rest at Majuba, 
and was in the hands of the Boers for several 
months. I was well treated in some respects; 
the surgical treatment was rather crude, and as 
a consequence it was several years before I 
entirely recovered; the sciatic nerve has given 
me the most trouble, till recently. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE LEITRIM DOCTOR. 

When I recovered sufficiently to travel, I 
started for England and when I arrived there, I 
secured a six months’ leave of absence to go 
home and recuperate. 

Believing that I was entirely cured of my 
boyish infatuations, I also believed that a few 
months at home would see me well over my 
bodily troubles. 

I spent a happy month at home, but after that 
the fact that I had nothing to do to occupy my 
mind, preyed on me, and I actually got lonesome. 
There was an intangible something missing, a 
void that the loving solicitude of the dear little 
mother and the sympathetic companionship of 
my sister could not quite fill. 

A longing for something unattainable seized 
me and I actually grew homesick at home, in the 
place where my ancestors had lived for several 
hundred years, where I had toddled when a 
child, without a care, without a fear, without a 
thought of the future, or a desire that went 
beyond the present, so long as the sunshine of 
my mother’s smiles beamed on me, or the mel- 
ody of her sweet lullabies fell on my appreciative 
ears, or when that fine, full, soprano voice car- 
olled some wild madrigal of “Fairyland.” 

*93 


194 


The Dawn 


Now, however, every time I went out for a 
saunter in some woodbine scented country lane 
something in the place would bring back the 
past, something would be sure to occur, to re- 
mind me of some little happy incident that had 
occurred there. 

Every bush, every tree, every flower that 
grew there, held some reminiscence of little Alice 
Devere. That lilac I often robbed of its load of 
sweetness and laid it at her feet. That rosebush, 
too, paid its perfumed tribute to her, through 
me. The sweetest violets grew beneath the 
shade of that big bore-tree, and the violets 
found their way to her — every one. Under that 
white-thorn hedge the largest cowslips bloomed 
— for her alone — and now the chill of winter was 
on them all, and the chill of a lonely and for- 
saken heart was on me. I would start to walk 
to town, but at every turn, at every well remem- 
bered spot where I used to meet her, that feel- 
ing of loneliness became more intense. Albeit 
I did not want to meet her, as I would not know 
what to say to her if I did. I certainly would 
not want to cause her any embarrassment, so I 
would turn and walk home again. 

I tried to read, but everything was too real. 
I was the hero and she the heroine of each novel, 
and a film with her face in it would come be- 
tween my eyes and the page, and I would lay 
down the book. 

As I had relatives in every direction, I thought 


The Leitrim Doctor 195 

of visiting them for a while till the feeling wore 
off gradually, or if I could get into some excite- 
ment it would probably wear off quicker, and, I 
have it! the very thing! Dr. McGovern! 

The last time I had a conversation wdth Sur- 
geon Major McGovern in Africa, he told me to 
be sure and call on his brother John when I got 
home, and he lived only twenty miles away. 

“You will find John a good fellow,” he said, 
“full of impulses, quick of temper, but as gentle 
as a woman at humanity’s call.” 

I rode the twenty miles to his place one day 
and found him living in town. He had moved 
in, as he had been appointed “Dispensary 
Doctor.” 

I found him a typical village doctor. He 
stood over six feet, but was rather clumsy in 
his movements. His clothing was made of the 
best material, but he did not seem to be very 
particular about being up to the latest in style; 
in fact he looked, and acted, like a well dressed 
gentleman-farmer. He was just the opposite to 
his military brother, who was the “Beau Brum- 
mell” of South Africa. You could tell at a 
glance, that the brother was a good fellow, but 
here was a man you must study for his points, 
or wait till circumstances brought them to the 
surface. You could tell, of course, by his high 
and broad forehead that he had an intellect, 
and by the laughing wrinkles radiating from 
the corners of his eyes, that there was geniality 


196 


The Dawn 


in his makeup, no matter how he might dis- 
semble, even if that furtive twinkle were absent 
from the eyes. He was the “dispensary doctor,” 
and according to all precedent he must be 
brusque, even gruff. His professional services 
and remedies were free to the poor, and his 
manner must not invite hypochondriasis, or a 
tendency to it, in his patients, by being too 
genial and free; in fact, he must be more or less 
gruff and dignified, and how on earth could a 
fellow with those laughing wrinkles and that 
merry twinkle appear gruff if he did not talk 
that way? 

He had a deep bass voice, and with a little 
force added it passed very well ; but it was harder 
for him to look gruff, but he managed it with 
artificial help. Whenever real suffering and 
pain were in evidence, however, a peculiar soft- 
ness of manner characterized his every word 
and act, but when the suffering was eliminated, 
the gruffness returned. 

When going to and fro among his patients 
within walking distance, he carried a murderous 
looking blackthorn stick, a young tree, in fact, 
that had been torn up by the roots, then sea- 
soned by being pushed up the chimney to collect 
a coating of the damp and clinging soot pro- 
duced by the turf smoke. This treatment was 
calculated on to make it limber and tough. The 
branches were then trimmed down to spikes, 


The Leitrim Doctor 


197 

which stood almost straight out from the stem 
and were about half an inch long. 

He tried to look a part that nature denied 
him ; not so with the stick, however, for both 
nature and art conspired to make it look tough 
and forbidding, and it surely did full justice to 
both. 

Whenever the doctor walked out, he twirled 
the wicked looking thing around as if he had 
complete command of it, and would just as soon 
use it on a fellow as not. 

He usually had another companion on those 
walks that would not take first prize in a beauty 
show — a cross between an English brindled 
bulldog and a rough-coated Irish terrier. This 
ferocious looking animal trotted along as if he 
were pulling on a string. As the doctor twirled 
the stick, the dog straightened up his pointed 
ears, put an extra kink in his bowlegs, showed 
another half inch of his undershot teeth and 
looked inquiringly up at his master from one of 
his bloodshot eyes, as much as to say, “Will we 
take a meal off the next beggar we meet?’' 
When the beggar did appear, the dog slid be- 
hind, as a warning growl from his master sent 
his ears and short tail down, for this particular 
beggar, as well as all the members of his pro- 
fession, was first rebuked and then given alms, 
and the poor dog cheated of a meal. 

As I said, the doctor lived in town, at the best 


The Dawn 


198 

hotel, but he had a fine estate running half way 
up “Dartry Mountain” and skirting the shore 
of “Lough Melvin.” It was looked after by a 
steward and his assistants, Vv^ho took particular 
care of a pack of harriers, half a dozen of the 
best blooded greyhounds in Ireland, descended 
from the celebrated “Master McGrath,” and ten 
or twelve of the finest hunting horses in the 
land. Those big, deep chested, thin flanked, 
long legged, Irish hunters, with sinews like steel 
and a coat like velvet, who can follow the hounds 
as long as the hounds will run without turning 
a hair, over mountain and through glen, over 
wall or hedge, or gate, through plowed land or 
bottom, over lane or brook, raised or sunken 
fence, it makes no difference to him; wherever 
the hounds will go he will follow. 

The doctor’s office was at the extreme end of 
the long and only street in town, and almost a 
quarter of a mile from the hotel. The hotel 
itself was in the middle of the town, and was 
the largest structure in the place. 

“Lough Melvin” being the home of the epi- 
cure’s delight, the famous “Gilleroe,” the hotel 
was headquarters for the fishers. I put up at 
this hotel, too, and being the guest of honor I 
had the largest room in the house. It was about 
eighteen to twenty feet square in the main room, 
then there was an alcove half as large as the 
room itself. The view from the windows was 


The Leitrim Doctor 


199 


grand in the extreme, and I could see the turbu- 
lent waves of “Lough Melvin” in the fore- 
ground, while far away in the perspective, 
“Dartry Mountain” lifted its mist covered crest 
into the banking clouds. There was a big open 
fireplace in the room, in which a roaring turf 
fire was kept burning night and day, and a fire 
of that nature is never out of place or season 
on this slope of Dartry Mountain, for on that 
mountain a mist has hung and swayed and 
dipped to the foothills and rose again, but never 
entirely disappeared since the dawn of history, 
so the dampness and chill is liable to come down 
at any time. 

Here there was none of the class known as 
“quality,” just the gentlemen farmers and the 
wealthy merchants made up the “society” of 
the place, and earth produces nothing better in 
manhood, manliness or comraderie. 

They organized hunting parties, shooting 
parties, dancing parties, mountain climbing 
parties, card parties and champagne parties 
on my account, so there was little chance 
of sadness here. On account of his assump- 
tion of the pseudo-arbitrary manner, the doc- 
tor was more or less the butt of the practical 
jokes of the young fellows, who could not 
see why the lavish addition of large sections 
of the alphabet could give him the unchallenged 
right of domineering at will over the whole 


200 


The Dawn 


community, but John F. McGovern, M. D., M. 
R. C., P. S. L, M. R. C. P. S. E., saw his way 
clear, if they failed to grasp the situation. 

Being the “Dispensary Doctor” alone gave 
him the whole power of the government to back 
up his opinions and demands in matters pertain- 
ing to the public health. In fact, he was the 
government, as far as that one branch of govern- 
ment was concerned. 

Among the party at the hunt one day was a 
fine looking young fellow of about three and 
twenty, tall as the doctor, but built in a dif- 
ferent mold, broad shouldered, deep chested, 
neat of waist and hip, straight as an arrow and 
of sunny disposition, who could ride like a cen- 
taur and dance “like the divil,” to use the lan- 
guage of the doctor. 

He was the junior member of the firm of 
Counard and Murphy, drapers and haberdash- 
‘ ers, and he was a dasher among dashers in more 
ways than one; fo-r instance, he was the most 
dashing rider at the hunt, and I have been sorry 
very often since, that I tried to dash as well as 
he did, but I considered myself called upon to 
uphold the prestige of the army, so I kept with 
him all day and would not fall behind an inch, 
if I died in the saddle or broke my neck out of 
it. He would ride a horse any place a horse 
would go, and an Irish hunter will go any place 
on land or in the water, that his rider chooses 
to guide him to. 


The Leitrim Doctor 


201 


About ten of us, including four or five young 
ladies, kept pretty well bunched, leaving the 
doctor with the older men far behind, to his in- 
tense mortification, but he blamed the horse, 
which was “throubled,’’ he said, ‘Vith a touch 
of foundther acute.” 

When we got back and had supper, several 
of us went down to the shop of Counard and 
Murphy to arrange for the morrow and its pos- 
sibilities, and go through the present day's ex- 
periences again. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


SCIENTIFIC SHOOTING. 

In going over the experiences of the day, the 
doctor came in for his share of the quizzing, but 
he declared that his size was “agin him” in the 
saddle, but at shooting he could “bate the man 
that invinted guns.” Some of the boys declared 
that I could shoot better with my eyes shut, than 
he could while using a gun built inside of a 
telescope. The upshot of the argument was a 
challenge shooting match between the doctor 
and myself, with revolvers, at a target, and a 
champagne supper the stakes. 

The next morning we repaired to the bank of 
Lough Melvin to have it out. The boys told 
me that such an opportunity had never occurred 
to take the “consate” out of the doctor, and of 
their well laid plans to that end. Their pre- 
arranged plan was so ingenious and withal so 
ludicrous that I hated to spoil their fun, so I 
went in on it with avidity, on condition, how- 
ever, that he would not be allowed to pay for 
the supper. They declared that they had al- 
ready arranged for that, as it was a foregone 
conclusion as to who would be the winner of 
the match. 

When we got to the place arranged on for 
202 


Scientific Shooting 


203 


the shoot, the target was already set up and all 
the necessary preliminaries completed. 

An old stump stood about four feet out of 
the water, about a hundred and fifty yards from 
shore. They had nailed the bottom of a barrel 
to the stump; it was painted white and had 
black circles painted in as on a regular target. 

The bullseye was about 10 inches in diameter, 
so it could be plainly seen at the distance. 

We tossed up a coin for first shot and the 
doctor won. The rules were that each was to 
fire six shots, and that whoever got first shot 
was to fire all six before the other fired any. 
Each of us was handed a loaded revolver. The 
doctor’s contained six ball cartridges, while mine 
carried one ball cartridge and five blanks. 

He took steady aim and at the word fired ; 
the ball struck the water about 50 yards from 
shore, glanced, struck again and went skipping 
along the surface like a piece of slate for a short 
distance, when it went to the bottom ; the other 
five shots struck about the same distance from 
shore, with about the same results. 

When my turn came, I turned my back to 
the lake and target, whirled around at the word 
and fired in the general direction of the target. 
The ball went fifteen or twenty feet closer than 
the doctor’s, because I gave it lots of elevation; 
in fact, that was the extreme limit of its range. 

The doctor clapped his hands in utmost glee, 
exclaiming, “Well, now! if I can’t shoot, as ye 


204 


The Dawn 


fellows say, I know some sodgers that can’t do 
very much bether.” 

“Wait a while,” I said; “that first shot was 
merely an experiment, doctor. I wanted to get 
the trajectory, the atmospheric resistance, force 
of gravity, the effect of the slanting rays of the 
morning sun on the side of the foresight, instead 
of the tip, as it should be, and a few other little 
scientific points necessary to draw certain de- 
ductions from, before accurate shooting can be 
done. You will see that I will do much better 
with the next and subsequent shots.” 

I then faced the target, took aim, looked at 
the sun, took aim again, but a zephyr of wind 
stirred and I lowered the revolver again. When 
conditions were favorable I pulled the trigger, 
and this time there was no “plash” in the water, 
and the only inference that could be drawn from 
that fact was, that the ball had hit the target or 
the stump. 

Before each shot, I dipped my hand into the 
cold water to steady my nerve, and lit a match 
and held the revolver over the blaze to “smoke 
the sights” and get rid of that annoying little 
glittering spot that plays havoc with your aim. 

At each shot the doctor looked at me, first 
with awe because of my wonderful knowledge, 
then with accumulating respect, and, when the 
last shot was fired without wounding Lough 
Melvin in her beautiful, calm bosom, he walked 
up to me and shook my hand warmly, saying: 


Scientific Shooting 


205 


“Durand! y’r the greatest shot in the wurrld, 
be hivens I Thim poor Zulus had small chanst 
wid min like ye to contind wid, bad luck to 
thim !” 

Somebody suggested that we should row out 
and learn where the balls had struck the target. 
As we could not all go, we sent some boys out 
to bring the target to shore. When it came in 
we all got around it and the doctor threw both 
hands up, exclaiming: 

“Hivens above ! what shootin’.” 

So well he might, for there in the very center 
of the bullseye and less than an inch apart, were 
all five bullets embedded to the rings. 

When we got back, the boys everlastingly 
quizzed him on his presumption in thinking that 
he could shoot as well as a man fresh from two 
wars. They suggested that he stick to his 
scalpel and physic, as they had serious doubts 
of his being able to get into a sugar-barrel and 
shooting out. He stood the chaffing as long as 
he could, in deference to me, but when patience 
ceased to be a virtue, he looked at the crowd 
witheringly and blurted out: 

“Divil thank him ! it’s his thrade,” and walked 
off, defeated but not subdued. 

I don’t know whether he ever learned that he 
had been sold or that the hitting of that target, 
at the distance, was a physical impossibility, as 
no revolver in use then or since, would carry 
half the distance. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


A GENTLEMAN’S REVENGE. 

That evening the same crowd collected at the 
shop again; this time the conversation, after 
covering almost every branch of sport, touched 
on boxing as a healthy exercise and a muscle 
producer. 

The doctor declared that when he was in 
college, he had devastated everything from 
freshman to sheepskin with the gloves and he 
believed that even now, while carrying around 
fourteen stone and a half, he could get away 
with anybody in the county. Somebody de- 
clared that Howard Murphy — the jolly, reckless 
Apollo of our hunt — could put him out with a 
punch. 

“What! that sthripplin’,” said the doctor, 
looking Murphy over from heel to pompadour, 
“it would be murdther for me to hit him. I 
could bind him like a sallyrod wid ivery clout.” 

“Oh ! I don’t know whether you could or not,” 
retorted Murphy; “I think I could hould me 
own wid you, docther, if you are three stone 
heavier than me.” 

“Somebody get a set of gloves,” said the 
doctor, “and I will dimonsthrate to ye that once 
clivver always clivver houlds good at boxin’ as 

206 


A Gentleman’s Revenge 207 

it does in swimming, whin you larn it once you 
can niver forget.” 

It seemed to me that the gloves were not very 
far away, as they were in evidence before he got 
through talking. 

They took off their coats and vests, and the 
gloves having been adjusted, they sparred off. 
Murphy danced around as light on his feet as 
a dancing master, while the doctor pranced 
around so clumsily that his feet seemed to be in 
the way all the time, like a young lady with her 
first train or a young officer during the first 
three months wearing a sword. Each made a 
lead and blocked that of his opponent, then 
Murphy feinted the doctor into a knot, and all 
at once shot out his left straight to the doctor’s 
nose, which commenced to bleed quite freely, 
putting an end to the bout right there. The 
doctor pulled off the gloves and throwing them 
on the floor rushed in to make a rough and 
tumble affair out of it, but we stopped the whole 
thing. 

Murphy tried to apologize, but the doctor 
would not listen to him but left the place vow- 
ing vengeance. 

‘T will get even with you for that, you thick- 
witted haverel,” he said, as he slammed the door 
after him. 

As it had been freezing for a couple of days 
and threatening snow, we were not surprised to 
see the big, soft flakes begin to fall, leisurely at 


208 


The Dawn 


first, then, as the wind blowing in off Donegal 
Bay began to freshen and become gusty, the 
flakes began to grow smaller and multiply, and 
a full-fledged snowstorm was upon us, growing 
in intensity with the freshening wind. 

I had declined an invitation to a ball, as I had 
some very important correspondence to attend 
to. I was about to retire early when the doctor 
came to my room, changing the order of things. 

He said it was so cozy and warm in my room 
that he hated to go to his own, which was with- 
out a fireplace and consequently chilly and 
cheerless, on this first wintry night. 

As there were two beds in my room, a big, 
stately, four-poster in the alcove and a new- 
fangled folding bed in the large room, I told 
him that he was welcome to stay and he thank- 
fully accepted my offer. 

To prove that I was in earnest in my hos- 
pitality, I rang for a couple of bottles of cham- 
pagne, some cigars and a light lunch, telling 
him at the same time to make himself at home, 
and after chatting and smoking for a couple of 
hours we retired. 

At about two o’clock we both woke up at the 
same time, roused by a series of loud knocks 
at the door. 

I jumped out of bed and asked who was there. 
Murphy’s voice answered in a peculiar tone, as 
if in pain, '‘For God’s sake, let me in.” 

Before he could say another word the doctor 


A Gentleman’s Revenge 209 

jumped up excitedly, crying, “Laard, Durand! 
gimme the rewolver till I sthick him.” 

The voice, more plaintively than before, con- 
tinued, '‘Let me in, lieutenant ! I am hurt, badly 
hurt.” 

“Hurt is it? Young Murphy hurt!” blurted 
the doctor, as he jumped out of bed in an in- 
stant. “Let the poor bye in,” he continued, as 
he got into his trousers, vest and congress shoes, 
like lightning. 

When I opened the door, Murphy was stand- 
ing with his shoulder leaning heavily against the 
jamb, his ruddy cheeks of a few hours ago pale 
and drawn with suffering, and the hand with 
which he had punched the doctor’s nose hanging 
limp and helpless at his side. 

As I ushered him in, the doctor took the use- 
less arm and gently, as if handling a baby’s, 
examined it carefully. 

Turning to me he said in a business-like man- 
ner ; 

“Colly’s fracture below and a compound frac- 
ture above the elbow. Take off his coat, lieuten- 
ant ! the sound arm first, then slip his coat sleeve 
off the broken arm ; gently, gently, mind you ! 
Then take this scissors and cut his shirt sleeves 
clean up to the shoulder, lay him an the bed, and 
by that time I’ll be back. I’m going to my office 
for splints and bandages and things. And the 
man who had grown impervious and gruff from 
giving imperative orders in just such emergen- 


210 


The Dawn 


cies, dashed out into the teeth of a fierce snow- 
storm, without a coat, to run half a mile to his 
office and back, for the materials necessary to 
heal the hand that had cost him some blood and 
a lot of dignity. 

And such is Ireland and Irishmen, for there, 
beneath a sometimes rough exterior, there beats 
the big, manly, tender heart, quick in its im- 
pulses, but big enough and magnanimous 
enough to forgive and forget. 

When the fractures had been reduced, 
Murphy told us of his mishap. He had been to 
the ball and was returning when he slipped on 
account of the smooth soles of his dancing shoes, 
and in trying to balance himself made the thing 
worse, falling eventually into a pile of loose 
stones by the roadside. He came to my room, 
he said, because he thought I might have some 
skill, on account of several years’ service in the 
wars, and he was backward in going to the 
doctor on account of the affair of the evening. 

“And you got even with me, John,” he said 
to the doctor, “as you get even with every one 
else, by doing me a good turn and doing it as 
gently as my mother would (God rest her),” 
and they wrung each other’s hands warmly, and 
I wrung the hands of both, for I love those big, 
brave, generous, manly Irishmen. There are 
few of them cowards, less of them villains, and 
none of them anarchists. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


IRISH AMERICAN AND AMERICAN IRISH. 

My strenuous life during that month was the 
cause of a good deal of pain and misery to me 
for a long time afterwards. While riding with 
the hounds one day, and being ignorant of the 
topography of the country, I rode to what 
seemed to be a very insignificant obstruction. 
It proved to be a rather wide brook, with a wall 
along the side from which I approached it. The 
horse went over just far enough to clear the 
brook with his forelegs, but his hind legs went 
down in its soft bed and his back was broken, 
and he rolled on me. My wounds re-opened, 
and it was long before they healed; in fact, they 
did not entirely heal till I had some of the 
splintered bones removed in this country. I told 
the doctor one evening that I was thinking se- 
riously of retiring and going to America to enter 
some of the professions. He advised me to stay 
where I was. “You will not like the people 
over there,” he said, “particularly the Irish.” 

He had been in “the United States,” had prac- 
ticed there, but had returned after his father’s 
death to take the estate which had been left to 
him. 

“You will find two distinct classes there, who 


212 


The Dawn 


claim Ireland as the home of their ancestors,’’ 
he said, “ ‘the American Irish’ and ‘the Irish 
Americans.’ The American Irish are imported 
on the hoof, so to speak; they bring their man- 
nerisms, customs and traditions with them. As 
they are mainly drawn from the peasant and 
laboring classes, they are naturally not quite as 
high a type as those we find at home, and some 
of them deteriorate when they get there. In a 
republic, liberty is sometimes mistaken for li- 
cense, and it is really hard to know where to 
draw the line. Now, here we have as much 
liberty as they have in America, but we elimin- 
ate the license. The imported Irishman is to a 
large degree law-abiding, religious and moral. 
A few take all the license that the place affords, 
but those few are conspicuous, because of their 
names and their accent. 

“The Irish American, on the other hand, is 
a product of the soil, but, from association with 
the laboring classes from Ireland, grows up to 
believe that all Irishmen are alike at home and 
abroad. He mimics his father's brogue, on the 
stage and on the street, and helps to promulgate 
the idea that the average Irishman is a cross 
between a monkey-faced degenerate and a mix- 
ture of spontaneous wit and unpremeditated 
foolery. He thus burlesques a whole race, that 
he knows little about, and cares less, only to the 
extent of using them, to advance his political, 
professional and business enterprises. He finds 


Irish American 


213 


that abuse of England and the ‘Sassanagh’ is 
a slogan that should never be allowed to die. 

“I have known lawyers, belonging to that 
class, who would get on a platform, at election 
time, and denounce England, and pathetically 
call attention to the sufferings of the Irish peo- 
ple, and go the next day and bribe a jury to 
bring in a verdict in favor of a railroad company 
that was being sued by an Irish widow, whose 
husband had been killed by their carelessness. 
The people of other nationalities would wag 
their heads and say, ‘What can you expect of 
him ? he’s Irish.’ 

“Then a gambler will follow him, in ribald 
denunciation of landlords who evict people who 
are several years in arrears with their rent, then 
evict a poor woman who is a month behind with 
the rent of a flat, himself. 

“One of this class, who was the greatest tail 
twister of them all, and had nothing left of his 
Irish origin but the name, got to within sight 
of the ‘promised land,’ and while enjoying the 
view got ‘hoist by his own petard’ and went 
down at the gate. 

“Some of those fellows have gone so far as 
to send some ignorant enthusiast over the water 
with a saw-dust bomb to hurl at ‘The Castle,’ 
that was made to resist a siege. A puny explo- 
sion, a little dust and twenty years for the ‘tool’ 
was the consequence, and the cause of Ireland 
was set back as long, and the work of those 


214 


The Dawn 


brave men at home, who are working manfully 
in Parliament was nullified. 

“The one redeeming feature about those pro- 
fessional Irish is that they contribute freely to 
the party workers at home. They do it with a 
flourish of trumpets, of course, but they do it.” 

When I came here, I was prepared to find 
them all, as the doctor had portrayed them, but 
I found that he was about as close to the mark 
as the people usually are, who believed that all 
the Irish people are as rough and uncouth as 
those they see and hear digging the sewers 
around town. 

I found that there were a few as he had por- 
trayed them, but they were so much in the 
minority that they are scarcely worth thinking 
about. 

He simply had overdrawn the picture in his 
impulsive denunciation, as many another has 
overdrawn the same picture, and condemned a 
manly, chivalrous race for the acts of a few, who 
are, unfortunately, in the lime-light, and under 
the gaze of people, who are only too willing to 
look over the heads of millions of liberty-loving, 
God-fearing, amiable, upright people, at hun- 
dreds of those less beautiful, but more conspicu- 
ous. 

After staying about a month at the doctor’s 
place, I went home again for the winter. Dur- 
ing that time I was making arrangements to 
leave for the States in the spring. 


Irish American 


215 


One day in early spring, I walked over to see 
a friend at ‘‘The Quay,” where the little steamer 
Knockninny, which plied between Belleek and 
Enniskillen, landed. 

When I got to Garvins, I saw one of the sights 
that goes far toward making Irishmen long for 
the day that will witness a revival of her manu- 
facturing interests. 

A “jaunting car” and several carts were ap- 
proaching from the direction of Garrison; 
women were crying aloud, and big strong young 
men, who would joke while storming a battery, 
were now and then furtively brushing away the 
welling tears. 

Two young girls, about seventeen or eighteen 
years old, were sitting on the car, one on each 
side ; each girl was leaning against an older wo- 
man, evidently her mother, and supported by 
her arm, and all sobbing convulsively. 

“A convoy!” I inwardly exclaimed, and, as 
they turned toward the boat-landing, I did not 
need to ask any questions ; the well-trodden path 
was too plain — Enniskillen! Derry! America! 
And America is the winner, Ireland the loser. 

A farmer, of the poorer class, or a laborer, has 
four or five sons and daughters, who are just 
old enough to work, and, as there is practically 
no manufacturing being done at home, they 
must seek work abroad. The shipping agents, 
relying on that fact for their harvest, have all 
the dead walls and gate posts in the country cov- 


2i6 


The Dawn 


ered with gay colored posters, portraying the 
wonderful opportunities for getting rich in 
America for young people of both sexes. 

Here is one, that invites i,ooo young women 
to go to Chicago, where desirable places are 
yawning for them, and £ i-o-o a week the emolu- 
ment. As £i-o-o contains twenty shillings, and 
as one shilling will buy as much in Ireland as 
$1.00 will here, except in two cases — meat and 
flour — it is very alluring. The poster tells them 
that in Chicago perfect equality exists, and the 
maid will be on the same social plain as the mis- 
tress. And we all know that she is, at a bargain 
sale, or in the morgue, after a theater fire. 

Well! little Mary Dolan and her mother went 
to the fair at Ballyshannon. All along the road 
those posters were staring them in the face. 
Mary, who is the eldest of the family, suggests 
that it would be a fine thing if she could help 
them; and, as she would not think of becoming 
a servant at home, here was the great oppor- 
tunity. When they got to town, they saw the 
sign in a window, “Steerage passage to Amer- 
ica, including transportation by rail to Chicago 
and all points in the west, only £3-0-0.’' Just 
think of that I three week’s work in America will 
pay the expense of getting there. They go in to 
investigate, and come out with a ticket, and the 
die is cast. 

Mary is seventeen, and a fine, big, healthy 
girl (God bless her!), and when she is in Amer- 


Irish American 


217 


ica a year, Catherine will be old enough to go 
and keep her company, and sure she’ll never feel 
a year slipping by, so they joke about it all the 
way home. 

Who knows but Mary, who is the prettiest 
girl in the parish, will marry a millionaire ; and 
why wouldn’t she? The poster and the ticket 
agent said that she would be as good as her mis- 
tress, and of course they know; then there is a 
story going the rounds to the effect that one 
man is as good as another in America — and he 
is, on election day. So, if Mary will be as good 
as her mistress, her mistress will be as good as 
her husband, presumably; and, as one man is 
as good as another, Mary will be just as good 
as the millionaire; hence, she may marry him. 
After settling that point satisfactorily, they 
build castles in the air, in a joking way, of 
course, because the shrewdness of women, in 
matters of a social nature, makes them a little 
skeptical on that equality theory; they have 
noticed that when a little girl of their own class 
gets a new petticoat, and the little playmate is 
still sporting the old one, the one with the new 
garment, by the elevation of a little pug nose, 
shows that she is a peg — just a wee peg — above 
the other, socially; therefore, if the boy is father 
of the man, the girl must be mother of the wo- 
man, and that whole structure of equality is 
knocked in the head in its early youth. They 
have the ticket, however, and Mary is brave; 


2i8 


The Dawn 


she will go, and they joke some more. Mary 
declares that if she marries a millionaire, the 
pigs at home will wear diamond rings in their 
noses, and her merry peal of laughter brings an 
answer from a thrush on top of that big larch 
tree. They don’t think just yet of the parting, 
and the salt that will be left in the soil when the 
tears dry up ; but wait ! 

Little Catherine was in Belleek one day, and 
when passing the postoffice, the postmaster 
called her and handed her a big letter. When 
she handed it to her mother, when she got home, 
Mary was singing, ‘‘As Slow Our Ship,” as she 
scrubbed the kitchen table with a sand rag. Lit- 
tle Nannie — the baby — was playing with her rag 
doll. A little robin redbreast had just hopped 
in over the threshold (they always did when 
Mary was singing), the crickets were chirruping 
in their lazy, droning, satisfied way behind the 
hob, and happiness reigned supreme. Mother 
opened the big letter, wondering who it was 
from. A sharp twinge of pain freezes the look 
of amused curiosity on her face, but she sup- 
pressed it, and, turning in as careless and un- 
concerned a manner as she could, to the little 
group of happy feminity, she said, looking 
directly at Mary, 'Tt is a notice that your ship 
sails from ‘Darry’ on ‘nixt Chuesday,’ darlin’.” 
The happy group turns pale and stops its work 
instantaneously; Mary, who may be going direct 
to that millionaire, grasps the table for support; 


Irish American 


219 


Catherine sits down unpremeditatedly in the 
scrub-bucket, and little Nannie runs into Mary’s 
arms and produces the first salt. The robin is 
gone, and the crickets have ceased their chirrup^, 
and all, from mother to baby, realize for the first 
time, that that happy little family is about to 
experience its first break, and Ireland gets salted 
some more. 

The mother, being the stronger, smiles to 
keep up their courage, and that smile, having 
been contagious for some years, sunshine is re- 
stored to all but little Nannie, who cannot be 
consoled at all. 

Mary has been the little mother to them all, 
always gentle, always smiling and happy, always 
willing to shield them when the other mother 
was forced to be austere, by times. And now 
she was going far away, and the little baby sis- 
ter could see no bright side to anything. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


“THE CONVOY.” 

At last, the night before the day, arrived, and 
with it Mary’s friends ; and they were numerous, 
so numerous that the house could not hold them 
all. 

The “boys” of the neighborhood cleaned up 
the barn, and Barney Malone, the fiddler, just 
happened to come that way, and he was pressed 
into service. He happened to have his fiddle 
with him, too, so the boys stretched long planks 
around the barn, resting on sods of turf and 
things. The fiddle commenced to emit squeaks 
and thrummings, as Barney screwed her up. 

Then the bow began to produce queer long 
sounds, getting closer to harmony with each 
long scrape, then to take little funny flights, 
double time, jig time, slow and sad time, rol- 
licking time, finally developing into “The Three 
Scons of Boxty,” and the convoy was in full 
swing. 

Here was Mary, a sweet faced young girl, just 
budding into glorious womanhood, preparing to 
leave, forever, the place where her baby feet 
toddled over the green sward, picking the 
demure little daisy to make a necklace for her- 
self or a crown for mamma; where her joyous 
laugh rang sweet and musical, till even the 


2 20 


The Convoy 


221 


robins began to know it, and to twit back a 
happy answer. 

The middle-aged mother is saying things that 
would evoke a laugh at other times, but the 
jokes seem strained, and the laugh too evidently 
forced, to arouse anything but a sorry little 
smile; Mary is packing the little trunk with 
clothes, and tears, and things, and the dance 
goes on in the barn. 

As the mother laughs and jokes, her lips 
quiver in spite of her ; a tear will wriggle down 
those wrinkles, and that load, that awful load 
of despair, cannot be concealed entirely. It is 
pressing all the sunshine out of her smiles, and 
the joyousness out of her jokes. 

She furtively glances at the cheek of her wee 
daughter, who was a child yesterday, but must 
of necessity be a woman tomorrow, with all the 
responsibility on those young shoulders, of pre- 
serving her dignity, and protecting her honor. 
The crisis will bring the strength, however, be- 
queathed to her, and kept in trust by a long line 
of mothers to be used at just such a crisis. She 
is lucky in having that inheritance, as she is 
leaving the only place on earth where men as- 
sist the women in being moral, and will not con- 
done a breach of morality in either sex. She 
sees that quick inquiring glance of the mother, 
and knows its meaning. She also detects that 
vagrant tear, and both women rush into each 
other’s arms and sob some more salt into that 


222 


The Dawn 


spongy soil, that has been impregnated with it 
for a hundred years or more, as day after day 
brings just such scenes as this one, till the very 
air seems damp and the soil full of it. No won- 
der the potatoes taste good in Ireland, they are 
seasoned in the hills. 

When the little trunk is packed and the 
bundles are arranged, and the linen handker- 
chiefs and the bits of lace she is bringing to 
Annie Gallagher and Biddy Quinn, are stowed 
away so the custom house fellows in America 
won’t get them (just as if “Big Manly Uncle 
Sam” would interfere with those trifling love 
tokens, coming to his poor homesick little 
adopted daughters, who love him at first sight, 
but Mary hides them just the same), and when 
all is ready, mother and daughter go out to the 
barn to meet the neighbors assembled there. 

Mary will have to dance with the boys who 
went to school with her, and put their coats 
over her head on wet days, and went in their 
shirt sleeves themselves, scorning the rain, that 
could not hurt them but would spoil her pretty 
curls. 

Now, what on earth is the matter with Johnny 
McCann? He is the best dancer in the town- 
land, and there he sits, apparently trying to 
swallow something that won’t go down. He 
smiles a wan smile when Mary enters on her 
mother’s arm; he shakes hands with her, but 
says not a word; he turns pale, and red, and 


The Convoy 


223 


pale again, and that big lump almost chokes him, 
as he tries to gulp the awful thing down. 

His sister, Kate, seeing his distress, and in- 
stinctively knowing its cause, goes up and hugs 
them both at once, and whispers to Mary that 
the poor “bye” is dying for her. The truth 
dawns on himself and Mary at the same time, 
and they do right there in public what they 
never did in private, sob in each other’s arms. 

This going to America seems to be such a 
happy incident that the people hug each other 
with pure joy; the joy is so unspeakable that 
they sob it, and so sacred a thing that they bap- 
tize it with their tears. 

The dance must not be stopped just because 
some people have hearts, that certain contingen- 
cies prove to be human. Anyway, a little scene 
like that just enacted is liable to prove con- 
tagious, if no diversion occurs, so let the dance 
go on. Johnny McCann and Mary Dolan are 
the best dancers in the parish, so they take their 
places in the next set, 

“With smiles that might as well be tears. 

So faint, so sad their beaming.” 

And that millionaire is positively forgotten; and 
the pigs are not likely to get those diamonds, but 
Ireland will probably lose two where she 
counted on one only. 

The dance goes on till morning; then the 
neighbors, who live close by, go home to break- 


224 


The Dawn 


fast, and those from a distance have “tay” with 
the Dolans. 

Then the carts come out, and the jaunting 
car drives up with another emigrant and her 
mother on one side of it; the other side is re- 
served for Mary and her mother. Mary starts 
to kiss the girls good-bye, and it takes a long 
time, as all Ireland seems to be crying at once. 
When she comes to little Nannie, the baby faints, 
and Mary throws herself down beside her and 
declares she will not leave the little sister. When 
the baby regains consciousness, Mary takes her 
in her lap and rocks with her; and the little arms 
are tight around her neck. The mother sepa- 
rates them again, and some of the neighbors 
takes the baby away. 

Mary is lifted on the car beside her mother, 
and she, too, seems on the point of fainting, but 
with a superhuman effort she rouses herself, and 
the procession starts. Little Mary Dolan takes 
a long, last, lingering look at the house and its 
surroundings. 

She will never know another like it. She may 
own a mansion in a land of mansions, but neither 
it, nor the land, will have the sweet associations 
woven around them, that she has experienced 
under the thatched roof of that old Irish farm- 
house. 

So the sorrowful procession, that I met at 
Garvin's, of the jaunting car and the carts, the 
sobs and tears, wends its way to the Knock- 


The Convoy 


225 


ninny. Other little processions, like this one, 
are converging to the same point. The final 
leave-taking occurs, the boat whistles again, but 
it is not heard ; there are other sounds in the air 
that appeal more to the human ear. The paddle 
wheels churn the water into foam, the boat 
moves on, and Mary Dolan and her mother will 
never meet again on earth. 

And yet ! there are people who wonder at the 
persistency with which Irishmen, who are Irish, 
long and pray for the time when Ireland’s homes 
will be owned by the people, so that the Mary 
Dolans can stay home and earn £1-0-0 a week 
without the mistress, who is no better than 
them, ON A POSTER. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


SOME MORE MEMORIES. 

I went to call on Mrs. Darcy and deliver her 
husband’s message, but found that she had sold 
out, and was gone to America, where she had a 
wealthy brother in one of the western states. 

I was told that little Julia was going to be a 
beauty, as her mother had been, and that she 
used to tell every one she knew about me, and 
what had occurred between her father and me 
in Africa. One of her schoolmates told me that 
if Julia Darcy should ever meet me, “It’s dead in 
love with you she’ll fall entirely, so it is.” I also 
went to a fair in Ballyshannon, but it was only 
the monthly fair, and but a pale reflection of 
“The Harvest Fair.” There was enough to it 
to remind me of my fair of years ago, however. 

There were fakirs there, and tumblers, too, 
and Mrs. Flannigan with the sugar candy, older 
and fatter, of course, but with the same invita- 
tion to “come an now,” etc. I was reminded, 
too, of how my heart had swelled with martial 
ardor when I rode proudly home in front of a 
private soldier, a we^ curly headed boy, with a 
“Glengary Cap” on my head, the two long rib- 
bons streaming from the back, and fluttering 
in the wind, behind, like twin pennants from 
the mast of an East India merchantman, while 
226 


Some More Memories 


227 


the blond curls clustered around and over the 
band in front, as we cantered up the street of 
Belleek, the cynosure of all eyes, and the envy 
of every boy in town. Those same boys hang 
around me now, eagerly awaiting any little 
story I may condescend to tell about my expe- 
riences in the wars. 

James Johnson and Peter Reilly had been 
writing sundry yarns about exploits of mine that 
appeared wonderful to the people in this little 
town, but were merely common incidents of war, 
that were magnified into heroic deeds at home. 
I believe that if I voiced a desire for a wrinkle 
from the brow of “Finner Hill” they would try 
to bring it to me. I met Sally McShane, who 
had married a shoemaker during my absence. 
She broadly hinted that she knew some poeple 
who were “sarry” that they didn’t have more 
“sinse.” 

‘T don’t want some people to be sorry, Sally,” 
I said, ‘T want some people to be very, very 
happy, and I sincerely hope they are.” 

'‘Troth! and I know that’s your kind,” she 
said, “but I nuvver lacked the way you were 
thrated, but nuvver mind, alyana, you’ll find 
some fine lady yit, that’ll thrate ye as you de- 
sarve.” 

This meeting with Sally had started that old 
train of memories afresh, those memories that 
I thought were stilled forever. I had never met 
Alice since her marriage, but every place I 


228 


The Dawn 


turned, and everything I saw, reminded me of 
her. That big sycamore tree, for instance, 
brings up her face when she was about ten years 
old, turned to me, pleading for the release of a 
little green linnet, that had been imprisoned, far 
up in its branches, by being entangled in the 
loops of a dangling hair that had been worked 
loose from the nest by the wind and wound itself 
around the half feathered neck of the poor 
‘‘scaldie,” and the sweet little smile of thanks 
when I climbed up and released it. Yonder at 
the “Big Hedge,” where I dallied for an hour, 
one day, pretending to be looking for a linnet's 
nest, but in reality waiting to kill time, so she 
must overtake me on her way home from town, 
and my violent blushes and ill-concealed agita- 
tion when she did come. Then, our chat as we 
walked together, and my strategetical moves to 
get my head close to hers, by showing her the 
pictures in a juvenile magazine, from which we 
both had our little weekly readings. 

I was indebted to that magazine for more 
thrills of happiness than I ever could keep track 
of. I was trying all the time to forget her, but 
why did people remind me of her? so I couldn’t 
do it. 

I wondered if she would have been very sorry 
if I had died in Africa. I wondered, too, if I 
could ever meet her as just a plain friend, with- 
out any desire to take her in my arms, and by 
doing so violate every law of God and man. 





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Some More Memories 


229 


No! I would rather never see her on earth 
again than to meet her now, and harbor such a 
thought as that, or be the cause of such a 
thought occurring to her. So I made up my 
mind to keep out of any danger of meeting her 
at all; perhaps when years and years had 
elapsed we could meet and look squarely into 
each other’s eyes without a regret. 

It would be no harm then to talk over, and 
perhaps laugh at that sweet old memory of 
childhood, with her husband and my wife the 
audience. 

I thought it a very peculiar feeling, that of 
being lonely at home ; I have often felt it when 
I was a child, and my mother was away for a 
short time. There was a strange, indefinable 
void, a deserted sensation, that depressed the 
little longing heart, a restlessness, an ennui that 
could not be overcome, till I saw her coming 
home again; then all the sunshine and life and 
happiness came back with her, and the house 
was full again. 

That was about how I felt when I saw those 
numerous reminders of that deep infatuation. 

“Well! rny leave expires tomorrow,” I said to 
myself one day, “and I can hardly say that I 
regret it. True ! my mother is dearer to me now 
than she ever was, because of her widowhood, 
and so is my sister, but they both know my 
feelings and respect them.” 

The next day I left home again, and when 


230 


The Dawn 


parting with my mother she treated me like a lit- 
tle boy again. Brushing back the hair that still 
insisted on curling around my forehead and 
brows, she said : 

*‘My poor boy! I am sorry you take that af- 
fair so much to heart. You were always of a 
loving disposition, and from the time you were 
old enough to note the difference between me 
and a stranger you were in the habit of looking 
long and wonderingly into my face, move your 
little hands over it caressingly, then nestle your 
tiny head on my breast. Well I I, too, was pretty 
and considered winsome in those days, and you 
were always a lover of the beautiful. You are 
young and impressionable now, but you will 
meet somebody yet, whose winsome ways and 
beautiful face will cause you to forget that Alice 
Devere had ever lived and caused you pain.” 
And my mother was right. 

I joined my regiment on “The Curragh,” but 
my wounds persistently refused to heal, and stay 
healed; they would close up for a while, but on 
the slightest provocation would open again; I 
was able to go through the daily routine of home 
service, however. One day while on parade, the 
general ordered me to advance, when he read 
the announcement of my promotion. 

“J. Howard Durand, ist Lieutenant, has 
been promoted to the rank and pay of Captain 
for meritorious conduct in battle, and has been 
awarded the Victoria Cross for the gallant res- 


Some More Memories 


231 


cue of Colonel Darcy, under extraordinary cir- 
cumstances. He will report for duty immediate- 
ly to Colonel of the — tli Dragoon Guards, 

now in barracks at Galway, and there take com- 
mand of troop , vice Captain St. Clair, pro- 

moted.'’ I was immediately surrounded by all 
the officers of my old regiment, who arranged to 
give me a grand “send-off.” 

When we got together that night we told all 
our stories over again, and sang our favorite 
songs. The Colonel, who had spent a whole 
summer at our place, insisted on my singing one 
of my own productions that he had heard me 
sing or hum in bits and snatches, on occasion. 
It was one of the many things I had written to 
pass away the time on the lonely veldt, and went 
very well to the tune of a popular ballad, in fact, 
it was more on the order of a ballad itself than 
a song. You can judge for yourself and com- 
miserate with him on his poor taste. 

He had spent a couple of months at Belleek 
during the summer and early harvest, and his 
memories of it were of the happiest kind. He 
had seen the salmon leap the fall, and often 
spoke of their strenuous efforts to get up that 
fierce flood, and of their supreme, almost impos- 
sible achievement in conquering the last and 
greatest barrier — the big fall itself — and this bit 
of straggling verse had always reminded him of 
the pleasure it had afforded him to watch them. 


232 


The Dawn 


WHEN THE SALMON LEAPED THE FALL. 

On the banks of lovely Erne, 

Where I first beheld the day, 

How we youngsters used to frolic 
When the school let out for play; 

How we climbed around the Eelweir gates. 
Or sat upon the wall. 

In June, July and August, 

When the salmon leaped the fall. 

Old Simmonds used to call the boys 
In front of the hotel. 

To scramble there for pennies 
Which he first had heated well; 

For the burns upon their finger-tips 
They didn’t care at all. 

In June, July and August, 

When the salmon leaped the fall. 

The bridge could not accommodate 
The crowds that came to town. 

And the shores were lined with fishermen 
From morning till sundown; 

And Belleek was celebrated 
As the grandest spot of all, 

In June, July and August, 

When the salmon leaped the fall. 

We used to roll our trousers up 
To go wading in the stream, 

And in day-time fish for jenkins 


Some More Memories 


233 


And at night for trout and bream; 

Our clothes got mighty dirty, 

And were scarcely dry at all, 

During June, July and August, 

When the salmon leaped the fall. 

We used to spar with gloves of hay. 

On the green outside the town. 

Or take sides in mimic warfare. 

Till the fort was broken down; 

And our eyes got blacked quite often. 

In a scrimmage or a brawl, 

In June, July and August, 

When the salmon leaped the fall. 

When we fought those youthful battles. 

Over field, and hedge, and lawn, 

One side was always “Blackamoor,” 

The other Irish brawn; 

The Irish always won the day. 

As they won it on the “Vaal,” 

While their mothers mourned their absence, 
Where the salmon leap the fall. 

I have not seen that lovely spot, 

Since I left it when a boy. 

I’ve seen all the vaunted spots of earth 
Unmoved, with far less joy 
Than would fill my heart with rapture. 
Could I sit upon the wall, 

That I sat upon in boyhood. 

While the salmon leaped the fall. 


234 


The Dawn 


When I retire, I will return 
And live there evermore, 

And watch that grand old river flow, 
While listening to its roar 
As it glides and swells and plunges. 
Through your gorges Donegal, 

Or in June, July and August, 

When the salmon leap the fall. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“AN INCIDENT IN GALWAY.” 

The west of Ireland is the flaw in the diamond 
— the rough spot — and yet it has its own style 
of beauty; barren and mountainous, it is true, 
but superlatively grand in its wild scenery, mile 
after mile of bog and mountain, mountain and 
bog. The mountain peaks rise above each other 
as far as the eye can reach, getting bluer as the 
distance increases, till the limit of the eye’s cer- 
tain view is reached, then growing dimmer in 
outline till they melt into the clouds in the hazy 
distance, and you cannot tell which is mountain 
and which is cloudbank. 

Nearby, the mountain side looks like a flower 
garden of gigantic proportions ; the pink heather- 
bell and the white “canawan” covers the flat 
places, while the yellow flower of the whin, and 
the red and yellow of the woodbine, mingle on 
the rocky hillside, while the tall stalk and hang- 
ing bell of the Fairy thimble, or digitalis, grows 
out of the ruins of old houses, where the blight 
of the evicter’s hand seems to have left nothing 
standing but this stalk of poison bearing bells, 
whose evil reputation keeps even the children 
away from the spot. I had never been in this 
part of the country, so I determined to drive all 
the way from Boyle to Galway, so that I could 
have an opportunity of seeing the country. 

235 


236 


The Dawn 


I was standing in front of the hotel while wait- 
ing for the “trap” to drive up, when I was ac- 
costed by a young man of fine appearance and 
charming manners, who told me that he was a 
“special correspondent” for a “Chicago paper.” 
He was there, he said, to see and report on the 
modus operandi of an Irish eviction. He said 
that he was going into Galway to be present at 
a large number of evictions on a certain estate 
— near the celebrated “Chapel of Knock” — 
which were scheduled for the near future. 

I told him that I was just about to start across 
country to Galway, in half a hour, and if he 
wanted to ride with me he could do so. He gave 
me a shrewd glance, and asked me how much his 
share of the expense for the “rig” would amount 
to. I laughingly told him what my profession 
was, and that as I was not engaged in trade, all 
the expense he would be under would be for 
the arnica to soothe the sore spots after a ride 
over the mountains of Galway. We were both 
agreeably surprised, as there were no sore spots 
to soothe, the roads being as well kept as they 
are in the level country. 

As I was in no particular hurry, we went in 
easy stages, both of us being anxious to see the 
grandeur of that wild scene. We tramped into 
the tall fine heather in the early morning, as he 
wanted to investigate it and the cotton topped 
canawans. 


An Incident in Galway 


237 


When we were up to our waists in the feathery 
shrubs, something occurred that caused me to 
laugh, loud and long. A big hare, started from 
its lair at our feet, and as it scurried away, creat- 
ing an agitated wave of bending heather, he 
started back on the run for the road. I roared 
after him, what was the matter? He roared 
back, ^‘Snakes,” and I had to sit down, laughing. 

He looked around, when he heard 'my bois- 
terous laughter, and as he was on top of a bare 
‘"knowe” and safe for the time, he asked me what 
I was laughing at, and I answered, “Snakes ! in 
Ireland !” 

He, too, commenced to laugh, as he remem- 
bered, and coming back, gingerly (I suppose), 
because he thought there might be just one left, 
or somebody might have introduced them in 
the interest of the landlords, as an Irishman will 
evict himself quicker than the sheriff and the 
constabulary could do it, if there was a snake 
used as an auxiliary, instead of an “emergency 
man.” I reassured him by telling him that if a 
snake was introduced he would not live long 
enough to rattle a requiem over his own tomb. 

As we stood there, in the heather, another dis- 
turbance occurred. A little bird, with feathers 
all ruffled and wings beating frantically, sprung 
from the heather as if shot out of a trap. It 
began to circle upwards, beating those wings 
and singing as if all the angels in heaven were 


238 


The Dawn 


extracting a different kind of song out of each of 
its feathers. My friend stood there open- 
mouthed and spellbound. He followed it with 
his eyes as it went up, ever up, throwing back 
at us a veritable flood of heaven’s own sweet 
harmonious sounds. x\nd, as it became a mere 
floating speck on that great blue dome, he lis- 
tened to that wonderful burst of melody, almost 
breathlessly, as it came to us in runs, and trills, 
and carols. I watched the passing emotions on 
his face as they changed from surprise to pleas- 
ure, to rapture, to awe, and to reverence. Then 
it began to descend, still singing as if its heart 
were bursting with love and music. Lower it 
came and louder and clearer became the strains 
of its voice, sweeter and sweeter as it ap- 
proached its offspring, which were, no doubt, 
listening and learning, till at last it folded its 
wings, and, as the melody stopped, dived into 
the heather, and he was released from the spell 
that held him riveted to the spot. 

“Oh pshaw! only a bird!” he exclaimed. 

“What did you suppose it was?” I inquired. 

“Some sweet spirit let loose from heaven,” he 
said. “And I was about to thank the janitor 
for letting it out, when it dropped into those 
weeds. If I were asked to write words for that 
wonderful soul stirring melody,” he continued, 
“they would be these, ‘Glory be to God on high, 
and on earth peace to men of good will.’ ” 

I told him that Shelley must have had about 


An Incident in Galway 239 

the same opinion of the bird as he did, when he 
wrote, 

“Hail to thee, blythe spirit. 

Bird thou never wert.” 

He said that nobody could have any other 
opinion while listening to a song like that, as it 
seemed as if there was an inspiration in it. I 
warned him to never again be guilty of calling 
heather weeds, and he promised, saying that 
this shrub, with its pretty, sweet smelling, 
honey-laden bells, would always be associated in 
his mind with the sweetest sounds he had ever 
heard. 

“Captain !” he continued, “I am not surprised 
that you, who were raised in this land of ever- 
lasting green, sweet perfumes and honest hospi- 
tality, should love it, for even the birds in the 
air learn to praise God for placing them here.” 

So we went on, admiring the wild, rugged 
beauty of the scenery, till we reached Galway. 
I learned more about the real conditions in the 
United States from this chance acquaintance 
than a person could learn in ten years’ reading. 

He was bright, chatty and companionable, 
like all Americans of the better class. He had 
been in every capital in Europe, as, indeed, I had 
been. He knew the sentimnt in Europe for, and 
against, England and America. I told him then 
(and he agreed with me), that we would live to 
see the day when the English speaking races of 


240 


The Dawn 


the world, particularly the two great English 
speaking countries, would be compelled to join 
hands for their mutual protection. I introduced 
him into our mess, and we enjoyed his society 
immensely. 

I was not very long in Galway till that great 
wave of evictions swept over the west, leaving a 
trail of mourning and ruined cabins in its wake. 
There was some turbulence, but the people con- 
tented themselves with booing and hissing the 
police, who are recruited from among the most 
respectable element of the farmer class. I 
learned that when one of them, through patriotic 
motives, concluded to resign rather than assist 
in causing sorrow and despair, the only effect it 
had on the existing conditions was to expose a 
couple of shams. And his uniform was not dis- 
carded a week till it was turned over to one of 
the young fellows who jeered at the “peelers” 
the -loudest, and paraded his hatred for them 
most conspicuously, and I came to the conclu- 
sion that Johnson was not far from the mark in 
his definition of some patriots, anyway. 

So the farmer boy who was a patriot in cor- 
duroy, developed into a tyrant in uniform in a 
few months, against his own class. The funny 
part of it, however, is the fact that his elder 
brother, who is a politician in America, is con- 
tinually threatening to take his “soord” and free 
Ireland in a jiffy, ignoring the fact that the 
younger brother would meet him at the Quay, 


An Incident in Galway 241 

rifle in hand, and with an inclination to use it, 
too, if called on. 

My troop was ordered to report to Captain 

, the stipendary magistrate, who was in 

supreme command of the repressive forces at 
the scene of the evictions. He was a tyrant, 
and, as a natural sequence, an arrant coward. 
The scene of operations was in Galway, close to 
the borders of Sligo and Mayo, and within sight 
of the modest little “Chapel of Knock,” the cross 
of which could be seen peeping over a little hill. 

This place w^as celebrated at the time because 
of an apparition which was claimed to have been 
seen there, which drew pilgrims from all over 
the world to its shrine. And yet I saw enacted 
within sight and earshot of that shrine that 
which came nearer proving “man’s inhumanity 
to man” than anything I have ever witnessed, 
since or before. 

It was intensified, too, because of its proxim- 
ity to that shrine where it was claimed by the 
press that God’s pity and compassion was being 
manifested every day by the crowds who came 
there on crutches, blind, deformed and despond- 
ent, and went away again hale and rejoicing. 

There were in the neighborhood of twenty 
families to be evicted, or “put out,” according to 
the local colloquialism, and the mode of opera- 
tions was arranged something like this : 

About two hundred men of the constabulary 
were formed into a hollow square, with the 


242 


The Dawn 


doomed cabin in the center. There were also, 
inside of the square, fifty or sixty men in a semi- 
uniform, a tight fitting trousers, leather leggings 
and a blouse. They were the lowest browed 
specimens of humanity I had ever seen outside 
of the ‘‘neutral strip’' at Gibraltar, or in the 
mountain villages, on the slopes of Mount Vesu- 
vius. They were called “emergency men.” 

I will take a chapter to describe them, if I can. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


THE EMERGENCY MEN— BIGOTRY. 

In the north of Ireland there is a secret society 
known as “the Orangemen.” The term orig- 
inated from the fact that William, Prince of 
Orange, wore an orange or tiger lilly during the 
“Battle of the Boyne,” and that after the battle 
the obsequious creatures who cringed to the 
conqueror of their country adopted it to gain 
favor, and thus started the society. 

They are of Ireland, but not Irish; they draw 
their sustenance from her fertile soil, but hate 
it ; fatten on her beautiful green hills, but curse 
the color; suck the honey, but damn the bee that 
produced it. They live in heaven, but do all in 
their power to turn it into hell. Who are they? 
Well, that is hard to tell. We know that they 
are descended from the camp-followers of the 
foreign prince. 

We know, too, that the greatest insult you 
could offer to the Protestants of Ireland would 
be to call them Orangemen. Just imagine what 
Parnell would have said if called an Orangeman. 

The Orangemen are of the slums of the cities 
and the hired men of the farms, the greasy 
vermin infested laborers of the shipyards of Bel- 
fast and other large seaports, the longshoremen 
243 


244 


The Dawn 


and “wharf rats” of Derry, and the scum of 
everywhere 

Some people outside of Ireland have an idea 
that all Irish Protestants are Orangemen, but 
that is as great a fallacy as the theory “that the 
sun do move.” 

The Irish Protestant is a decent man, attends 
to his duties — religious and temporal — quietly 
and manfully, is a good neighbor, and on the 
best of terms with his Catholic fellow country- 
men. From his ranks have sprung the greatest 
and most self-sacrificing of all Irish patriots and 
martyrs — Grattan, Wolfe Tone, Emmet, Naper 
Tandy, Parnell and a host of others, all Protest- 
ants, all Irish. William Carleton, too — mur- 
dered by the Orangemen — was a good Protest- 
ant, and a good Irishman. William Allingham 
— the sweet poet of Ballyshannon — another. I 
was brought up among them, and I know them 
well. 

In 1798, when the great rebellion was being 
crushed, an incident occurred in my own family 
that has endeared them to me. My great grand- 
father was arrested, charged with being a rebel. 
Several Protestants were arrested with him. He 
was dragged after a boat from his home to the 
county seat in a bag, and still he lived, stood trial 
and was acquitted. His lawyers were Protest- 
ants, too, and thereby hangs a tale. 

The whole proceeding was a weird nightmare 


The Emergency Man 


245 

of treachery by the Orangemen and unselfish 
loyalty by the Protestants. 

Here is the tradition, as the older men among 
the neighbors told it to me. I never heard a 
word about it at home : 

William Durand and Stephen Rayborn were 
neighbors, both well-to-do ; Rayborn was an 
Orangeman, bitter, spiteful, treacherous. The 
lands of the rebels were always confiscated, on 
conviction, and given to the informer. Durand 
had a wild young horse, and Rayborn had a fat 
sow. Some of the young imps of the neighbor- 
hood tied the sow on the horse’s back and let 
him go. He did go, as only a frenzied horse can 
go, over hedge and ditch, lane and meadow, the 
pig squealing as only a pig can squeal. The 
whole countryside turned out, but nothing could 
be done, and as a consequence, both horse and 
pig were killed. 

Rayborn swore vengeance against Durand. 
The fact that the horse was ten times more 
valuable than the pig did not appease him, so he 
swore to get even. The final result was that 
Durand and several others were arrested, and 
after having escaped drowning, he was sent to 
Drogheda for trial. 

It was considered almost as much of a crime 
to defend a rebel as to be one, and the lawyer 
who would take the case must be a courageous 
man. Within a few miles lived an old gentleman 
and his son, both prominent counselors. 


246 


The Dawn 


When the time of the trial came, the older man 
was sick, but he took his son into the library, 
and pointing to a musket over the mantel, said: 

‘Tf you do not acquit Durand you will get the 
contents of that when you return/^ 

“You know Rayborn; he is highly excitable, 
and has as much of the pig in him as the one 
that was killed. Harp on that pig till you get 
him excited; keep on with the pig till he be- 
comes exasperated, finally forcing him to make 
some remark that will show his animus, and you 
will acquit your man. Fail! and you will die 
here.” 

The trial started; the young counselor fol- 
lowed the lines laid down by his more expe- 
rienced father; Rayborn got excited, exasper- 
ated, beside himself with rage at the questions 
and remarks of the counsel, witty, caustic, sar- 
castic and personal. He fumed and sputtered, 
and at last roared: “If you say another word 
about the pig. I’ll be d — d if I don’t swear twice 
as much.” The judge, who was more inclined 
to be just than most judges of the period, 
stopped the trial right there, and, after excoriat- 
ing Rayborn, declared that Durand was not 
guilty. And both counselors were, as I said, 
Protestants. 

Not guilty! but still held prisoner, and for 
what? A man by the name of Patterson (a 
neighbor) also languished there, in prison, wait- 


The Emergency Man 247 

ing for the day of his execution, and his crime 
was that of being a rebel. 

He was offered his pardon by the government 
on condition that he turn “King’s evidence” 
against Durand. He persistently refused, but 
they had hopes that when the rope dangled be- 
fore him, he would do what they desired. His 
brother, at home, heard of the government’s 
hopes, and he walked over 100 miles, with a pis- 
tol in his pocket, with which to kill his only 
brother if he became an informer. He stood be- 
neath the scaffold, pistol in hand, concealed, but 
ready for use, but he did not have to use it. 

The preliminaries were gone through, slowly, 
so as to cause fear to have its effect; it had its 
effect; he died like a man, and the Pattersons 
were Protestants. The Irish protestant has not 
deteriorated; he is as loyal today as he was 106 
years ago, but the Orangeman is irreconcilable, 
as all men of low origin, lower ideals and base 
instincts are sure to be. If you trace the re- 
ligious bigot to his lair, I don’t care what faith 
he may profess, you will find a slimy lair and 
filthy surroundings, and of such material is the 
Orangeman made. 

About 5 per cent of the Protestants of Ire- 
land are Orangemen. Needless to say that 
Grattan, or Emmet, or Wolfe Tone, or Butt, 
were not Orangemen, and I know thousands of 
the best men of my acquaintance, in Ireland, 


248 


The Dawn 


who are Protestants, but who would be insulted 
if called Orangemen. The 95 per cent of those 
fine specimens of noble-hearted Irishmen who 
are Protestants, are not honored by affiliation 
with that other 5 per cent, but have to grin and 
bear it. 

The religious riots of thirty years ago, and all 
the way back to “the Battle of the Boyne,” were 
caused by those roughs, and an equally rough 
element among the gutter propaganda on the 
Catholic side. Neither has enough religion to 
go very far, but they think they are saturated 
with it. 

The lower elements of both sides used to get 
drunk, apart, and when the frenzy of religious 
hate was warmed up with “Coleraine” whisky, 
they pelted each other with rocks, on two days 
every year; then they got drunk together, after 
their wounds healed, and argued peaceably on 
Scripture and the relative unebriating qualities 
of “Jameson’s” and “Coleraine.” 

It used to be supposed that all the people took 
a hand in those riots, but the riots occurred only 
in towns like Belfast, Derry and those places, 
where linen and other factories employed the 
class of people I have described. I lived in a 
well mixed community, and I never saw a riot, 
nor did I hear an acrimonious word spoken on 
religious matters, till I became a soldier and went 
to suppress them, and cavalry is the only arm 


The Emergency Man 


249 


of the service that should be used to suppress 
a riot, where firearms are not used. 

I have seen the militia called out in this coun- 
try to suppress riots, but they are the poorest 
material that could be used for the purpose. 
First, because they are not steady enough under 
provocation; second, because when they use 
force at all, they use more than is necessary, and 
in many cases the innocent but foolish bystand- 
der is the sufferer. 

Cavalry, on the other hand, are so high over 
the heads of the rioters that they can see the 
ringleaders. No mob on earth will stand in 
front of prancing horses, and when it breaks, a 
cavalry horse is so beautifully trained that his 
rider can guide him to the eighth of an inch with 
his knees ; he can overtake the retreating ring- 
leader and brush him so gently with his horse 
that he merely staggers, when the cavalryman 
grabs him by the collar and trots off with him. 
The riot is broken, and there is nobody hurt. 

In those religious riots in Ireland the respect- 
able element of either side was never known to 
take part. The disreputable element only; and 
disrepute and bigotry are twin sisters ; of such is 
the emergency man. 

Bigotry is a species of emotional insanity; it is 
sometimes sporadic and sometimes epidemic. 
It attacks, sometimes individuals, and sometimes 
governments. England used to have it, now in 


250 The Dawn 

one form, now in another, but she was entirely- 
cured. Turkey has a chronic case — absolutely 
incurable. France had it bad, but an operation 
of phlebotomy arrested its ravages, but now she 
is threatened with it again, and may have to un- 
dergo another operation. Spain had it so bad 
that her limbs fell off, one by one; she still has 
it in a mild form, so the germ must be always in 
the air. 

When it occurs m individuals, I will diagnose 
the case to the best of my ability, as a physician. 
Men are more susceptible to it, when under the 
influence of bad whiskey, or when aggressively 
temperate. 

When under the influence of whiskey, the 
patient hiccoughs violently, the face becomes in- 
flamed, so does the mind ; the lips become dry, 
and cracked; the gait becomes unsteady, so does 
the tongue; the soul becomes small and warped, 
and the breath is horrible. If the attack occurs 
in March, the patient evinces a desire for the 
eternal sequestration of the soul of one William, 
Prince of Orange, in a place where asbestos cur- 
tains are not used. If it occurs in July, the de- 
sire is irresistible to have a long succession of 
popes immured with the above-named prince. 

When the patient is in the dry state, the symp- 
toms are entirely different. There is a percep- 
tible droop in the corners of the mouth, the skin 
becomes dry and sallow, the eyebrows have a 
habit of raising up and dropping, the cheeks 


The Emergency Man 


251 


are hollow and marked by deep, curved creases, 
from the nose downwards ; the lips are thin and 
usually closed with a snap when soap packages 
or boxes are being removed at the wayside sta- 
tion ; the patient has an overweening desire to 
pray, in public, but usually neglects to do so 
when going to bed. This class of patients often 
import inspiration in oil cans — the soap theory 
being exploded. 

Whether the germ is incubated in the damp, 
or arid surroundings, the patient firmly believes 
that he, alone, is holy, and the only use he has 
for God is to induce Him to become an acces- 
sory to the murder of those people who will not 
believe as he does. 

Now, as a lawyer I would advise that the pa- 
tient be gently but firmly admonished to save his 
own soul, if he can, as he can, and when he can ; 
the other people’s souls are private property, 
and he will not be held responsible for them, 
either by the common law, statute law or the 
ecclesiastical law. He will (of course) get credit 
for all the good advice he can give, and all the 
good example he can show, but the number of 
good marks he will get will naturally be reduced 
by the number of times he makes a meddling 
nuisance of himself. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


THE EVICTIONS. 

This martial group of constabulary surround- 
ing the emergency men approached a little 
thatched cabin. All that it contained could be 
conveniently stored in the rifle barrels of the 
constabulary. A cordon was formed around the 
cabin, the constabulary facing outwards with 
fixed bayonets. The emergency men were in 
the center of the hollow square, of course, and 
even with that chevaux de frise of steel around 
them, their furtive glances in this direction, and 
that, showed them to be cowards. The sheriff 
went up and knocked at the door; getting no 
response he made a sign and those human dachs- 
hunds approached at a run. They had a pine 
tree between them, twenty on each side ; they 
used it thus as a battering ram ; going back a few 
yards each time, they sprang forward again, till 
they made a breach in the mud and stone walls; 
when it was large enough they carried out the 
furniture and pushed the people ahead of them. 
When the wailing women and children came 
out, those heartless blackguards laughed at the 
wry faces made by the children when they 
looked back at their ruined home. Those men 
were the most expert vandals I had ever seen, 

252 


The Evictions 


253 

for in less than three hours they had leveled 
nineteen of the cabins. 

The soldiers had nothing to do but look on 
from a distance, as they were just held in reserve 
for emergencies. And they were walking around 
in groups, leading their horses and discussing 
the matter at issue. I could tell by their ges- 
tures and the look^of disgust on their faces that 
they were not proud of their occupation. One of 
the sergeants told me that if “a scrimmage’' oc- 
curred, the emergency men would be more liable 
to get hurt than the people. Those boys were just 
home from Africa, where they had given a good 
account of themselves in real war, and those 
who were English, were “blausted” hif they 
would ’urt those hunarmed people for nothink; 
and the Scotch said, “De’il tak me if al dae’t.” 
We all knew what the Irish would do. You can 
lead men in an attack, but you cannot make them 
kill or maim if they don’t want to. When they 
saw those emergency men pulling and pushing 
women and children roughly out of jagged holes 
in the wall, a Lancashire man said, “Them beg- 
gars would not foight the pictures of soldiers on 
a fence, blowed hif they would.” A good soldier 
hates a coward, and those Irish, English and 
Scotchmen were good soldiers, every man of 
them ; they had been tried in the crucible, and 
proved to be the genuine article. I had seen 
men just like them buried with me in the middle 
of legions of black devils, and listened to their 


254 


The Dawn 


jokes as they cut their way out, something on 
this order: 

“See ’ere, Bill, d’ye twig that chaup with the 
paunch; put a slit in it, above the hostrich 
feathers, ’ee may ’ave some doimons there.” 
“Caunt do it, old chaup! hoi must hattend to 
’is nibs on the ’il ’oo is chuckin those devil-sticks 
haround my oss‘ ’ead, hand hoi 'want you to 
hunderstand that this ere oss belongs to a 
loidy, d’ye mollen!” 

They could not understand why soldiers 
should be brought here, anyway; wer’nt the 
“bloomin’ bobbys” enough for this kind of work ? 
and leave soldiers to fight the enemy. 

The women and girls were “jibing” “the 
peelers,” and execrating “those far down black- 
guards, wid the Frinch coats and piper’s 
breeches.” 

True! there were some overt acts of war, but 
the army ambulance corps was not needed; some 
boys on a turf stack were using it for both fort 
and ammunition; the turf was used as hand- 
grenades, but they were not very dangerous. 
Those extemporaneous warriors in bare feet 
were successful, once in a while, in sniping the 
emergency men, but who wouldn’t wish to be a 
boy again, bare feet and all, for that privilege of 
early youth. 

The climax came, however, when we reached 
the last of those “marked mansions.” 

It was not quite so imposing as some of the 


The Evictions 


255 


others, but it came within reaching distance of 
bloodshed. 

There was a halt here for a while — a hitch in 
the carrying out of the program. 

It appeared that the lone, occupant of the 
house was sick — down with the fever. The fever 
there meant the dread typhus of the seaside and 
the bog, which carries away whole families 
sometimes. 

The local physician declared that if his patient 
was removed in his present condition, death 
would almost certainly follow. The sheriff, 
who was, on the whole, a humane man, tried to 
get out of this most disagreeable task by wiring 
to the agent in London, stating the seriousness 
of the case, and asking for instructions. The an- 
swer came, terse and to the point, “Sheriff, do 
your duty!’^ 

The agent was an Irishman of the variety 
which Joseph Murphy portrays so forcibly on 
the stage. And yet, there has been less than 
fifty agrarian murders in Ireland during the nine- 
teenth century. 

The emergency men battered in the side of 
this house like the rest. Somebody borrowed a 
“winnowing sheet” from the priest. It was tied 
over the sick man’s bed like a canopy, and the 
bed was carried out through the gaping hole in 
the wall, with the sick man in it. And he had 
the poor taste to die out there on the “causey.” 
Then the mob went mad. 


The Dawn 


256 

The stipendary magistrate was taken with 
wild panic. The constabulary were extended 
into line, the “emergency men” cowering behind 
them with ashy faces and trembling limbs. The 
soldiers mounted and wheeled into line, and 
warfare seemed imminent. 

The men of the mob showed signs of hostility 
for the first time, and stones were taking the 
place of turf clods. The magistrate read the 
“riot act.” The police were ordered by their 
officers to load, and that seemed to exasperate 
the people still more. The magistrate came to 
me and asked me to hold the men in readiness 
to charge. There had been no damage done so 
far; the throwing was being done mostly by wo- 
men, and as a consequence the missiles lacked 
force and aim. 

It is a well established physiological fact that 
no matter how expert and ambidextrous a wo- 
man may become at wielding a rolling-pin, a 
needle or even a bare bodkin, when it comes to 
“clodding turf” or throwing stones, she is pa- 
thetically and irredeemably left-handed in both 
hands — and she is proud of it. And the more 
awkwardly she wields her hands, the prettier she 
appears to us fool men. 

When the magistrate asked me to prepare to 
charge, I told him that I thought a little sanity, 
a little humanity and a grain or two of courage 
would suffice in this case. 

“I will have no temporizing, sir!” he said. 





THE EVICTION. 




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The Evictions 


257 


“with these rebellious people; if they do not dis- 
perse in five minutes I will order the police to 
fire on them, and you to charge.” 

“Do you suppose for a minute that I would 
order my men to charge into that mass of un- 
armed people, half of whom are women and chil- 
dren,” I said ; “I will show you right now that 
such harsh measures are not necessary. If you 
don't know how to handle a lot of Irish farmers, 
I do.” And taking off my belt and handing it to 
the 1st Lieutenant, and then raising my hand to 
command silence and attention, I walked slowly 
towards them. 

A few clods of turf were thrown by some 
young girls, who then dodged back of the crowd, 
giggling. Their aim was poor, however, as they 
were evidently not well up on artillery drill, or 
they giggled too much to take deliberate aim, or 
they were too excited to adjust their back sights 
to the shortening range; so, to use a common ex- 
pression when talking of missiles, the turf went 
whistling over my head and buried themselves 
in the sink, behind. The rest of the mob stood 
there irresolute for a minute, but as it dawned 
on them that my mission was a peaceful one, 
they just let out a cheer that could be heard at 
Knock. And the war was over. 

The Irish people are very much like Ameri- 
cans in many ways, for instance, you can lead 
them, but you cannot drive them. 

If I had held on to my sword, I would have 


The Dawn 


258 

hastened the threatened clash, but by leaving it 
off, and going through them unarmed, I showed 
them that I wanted to avoid bloodshed; all their 
chivalry was aroused, and the diversion gave 
them time to realize the absurdity of resistance. 

As soldiers we would have to obey orders. 
Even if we were compelled to charge, I knew 
by the temper of the men that there would be 
no blood drawn except by accident. The emer- 
gency men might get in the way, and as I wanted 
no bloodshed at home, I considered my plan the 
best. The government evidently did, too, be- 
cause I was highly complimented for the way I 
acted. 

That thing of evicting people seems cruel, but 
I don’t see clearly how it can be avoided as long 
as there are landlords who want some return on 
their investment. 

Here in Chicago there are more poor people 
evicted for non-payment of rent in a year, than 
there has been in Ireland in ten years. And the 
condition will continue as long as one class of 
men own property, and another class rents it. 
The cure is, own your property, and you fear no 
landlord. - 

An old man came up to me when the people 
had quieted down, with his hat in his hand, but 
forgetting that he had it off, he saluted as cor- 
rectly as if on parade. 

‘'God bless you. Captain!” he said, “sure its 


The Evictions 


259 

yerself knows the char-ac-ther of the Irish peo- 
ple ! yer Irish yerself now? al bate.” 

“Yes, I am Irish,” I said, “or rather Irish of 
old English descent.” 

“Sure, they’re the best we have,” he said, 
“they’ve got the tindther heart from their Irish 
ancisthry, and the indipindince to show it, and 
stand up for the principle of the thing, from their 
English. 

“Would ye plaze tell me yer name, Captain,” 
he continued; “the people want to know, and 
they sint me to axe ye.” 

“Durand,” I answered. 

“Be hivens ! Durand! Liftenant Durand, of 
the — th Dragoons.” 

“The same ! but how do you know of that?” 

“Japers ! cripse ! didn’t you bury my nivvew in 
Africa. Poor Terry! he was a good bye, so he 
was, an al bate ye, a good sodger; and that’s his 
father, that’s dead, beyant.” 

“What is the dead man’s name?” I asked. 

“Paddy Muckateer.” 

“For the love of heaven! This is too cruel, too 
cruel. Good soldier! he was a hero! doubly a 
hero ! Any hero can die, fighting, but when he 
gives his life to save another’s he is beyond a 
hero. Your brave nephew, Terrence McIntyre, 
saved my life, and lost his own in doing it, and 
here I am, assisting at the murder of his poor 
old father.” 


26 o 


The Dawn 


That old man took my hand while the tears 
streamed down his wrinkled face. 

‘‘Naw, Captain I” he said, “y^u didn’t assist at 
the killin’; ye saved lives here the day, and the 
people will not forget ye in their prayers. 

“Quid Paddy was a sodger himself,” he con- 
tinued, “and so was I ; we both sarved in the 
Crimee and the Sepoy Ribillion. We ‘listed’ 
together in the Connaught Rangers, and whin 
we kem home he married my sister, who was 
Terry’s mother, and now they are all dead but 
me.” 

I could hardly keep the tears back myself. 
Here was a whole family of humble heroes, and I 
thought that governments, both kingdoms and 
republics, are like a good many individuals and 
corporations ; when a man spends the best part 
of his life helping to build them up, just as soon 
as his usefulness is over, they drop him like a 
stone into the grave. 

I remained to attend the funeral, that funeral 
over that old hero, and father of a hero, be- 
longed to me, as much as to anybody there, and 
I had the troop fire a volley over his grave, too. 
The government owed him that powder, and 
governments at least pay their debts. 

When I go back to Ireland, some time, and 
see every man the owner of his land, I will say: 
England, you have paid your debts ! They have 
earned it with their blood. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


A CHAPTER ON POLITICS. 

I believe that the men who are now fighting 
the bloodless battle for Ireland’s advancement 
and ultimate peace and wealth, are pursuing the 
proper methods, but they fail to give credit to 
another set of men, who are better Irishmen in 
many cases than they ever were, “The Irish 
soldier in the British Army,” who has gained 
more for Ireland in the last hundred years than 
the politicians, alone, would in a thousand. 

Let us take a look back for a hundred years, 
say, and count the milestones along the highway 
of time, and see what is written there. After 
the “Peninsular War” and “Waterloo,” O’Con- 
nell found it much easier to gain Catholic eman- 
cipation, than if there had been no Irish soldiers 
to cover themselves with glory, there. 

“The Church Disestablishment Act,” or some 
other such act, would have been passed fifteen 
years earlier, in recognition of the Crimea and 
“The Sepoy Rebellion,” were it not for the 
absurd abortion of ’65, started by a lot of vision- 
aries in this country, who, unprepared, without 
money or other resources, got up a foolish, im- 
possible, absurd emute, either through pure 

261 


262 


The Dawn 


ignorance of conditions or through selfish mo- 
tives, of becoming politically prominent, which 
some of them did. No matter what the motive, 
they started, like Don Quixote, to charge on a 
windmill, but unlike the Quixotic Don, they 
were supplied with neither rosenante, or the 
lance, and the Sancho-Panzas were hung, or 
transported. 

I remember the time well. I remember cry- 
ing my boyish eyes out, while listening to my 
father reading “the speeches from the dock,” 
and of the poor misguided young fellows who 
sacrificed their lives, so that a few men (who 
had little Irish about them but their names) 
might become Congressmen. 

When I think of that fizzle, or see any one do- 
ing, or trying to do, a foolish thing, without 
resources or tools, I go back, in fancy, to an old 
woman on the mountain side, near where this 
story opened. 

She was of the nagging variety. Her hus- 
band was so used to it that he took it good- 
naturedly or philosophically. I am afraid he 
was a little lazy, too, or perhaps he was nagged 
into indifference, like the husband of Xantippe. 
Be that as it may, there was an old, dried whisky 
barrel in the house. Nancy wanted Pat to cut 
it in two, and make two tubs out of it. Every 
time I happened into the house, from the time 
I was old enough to go up there to pick bill- 
berries, I heard of those beautiful tubs, but the 


A Chapter on Politics 263 

barrel was still there, intact, when I was 12 
years old. 

One day I dropped in for a drink. I met Pat 
coming out crestfallen, but philosophical as 
usual. Nancy was inside, with a look of heroic 
determination on her face that meant coming 
victory, if it meant anything. She had that look 
on her face that the heroic Queen must have 
worn before she sucked the poison out of her 
husband’s wound. She walked with strident ma- 
jesty up to “the brace,” and taking down a saw, 
commenced to rub it on a flag on the hearth, 
back and forth, across the edge, like a hen shar- 
pening her bill on a fence-rail. I noticed that 
where the teeth used to be, there was now a 
rusted wavy line, like the embroidered scallops 
around a lady’s petticoat, on a wet day — but 
absolutely no teeth. 

She rolled the barrel to the middle of the un- 
even dirt floor, where she placed one foot on 
top to steady it. There were four iron hoops on 
each end, leaving a space of about twelve inches 
of the bulging center bare. About the middle 
of this space she commenced slowly at first, but 
gradually accumulating force and speed, till her 
arm went as fast as the driving rod of a sewing 
machine at its best. She was making no per- 
ceptible mark, however, on the hard oak staves. 
The saw, unguided by any track, ancient or 
modern, kept running any place where its roving 
fancy listed, between the distant hoops. I was 


264 


The Dawn 


afraid that barrel would go on fire, from friction, 
and explode, but it didn’t. As her determination 
became more desperate, the rapidity of her arm 
increased, and the barrel began to roll hither 
and thither, she pursuing it, in its wild peri- 
grinations around that big kitchen floor. There 
was a tub of boiled cabbage for the cow near the 
back door, cooling. It was still hot, however, 
as the steam was rising in clouds. Nearer and 
nearer to this steaming cow manna waltzed the 
barrel, faster and faster went the saw, now here, 
now there, now everywhere. As the barrel prog- 
ressed, she still kept one foot on top, and hopped 
after it with the other. At last the collision and 
the catastrophe. The end of the barrel struck 
the tub amidships, the force of the collision caus- 
ing it to spin around, and the foot that was on 
top to slip over, bringing her down astride that 
barrel like a cowboy on a bucking broncho. As 
her legs were not long enough to reach the floor 
on either side, she pressed her heels into the 
curving rotundity, and waved .the saw over her 
head like a wand, to balance her, but it failed to 
be effective. The barrel gave another lurch and 
struck again, this time on the port bow, and she 
was heaved overboard and sat squarely, or 
roundly, rather, in the tub of cabbage. And that 
barrel has not a mark on it to this day. 

The prisons were filled with young fellows in 
1865, the majority of whom were guilty of noth- 


A Chapter on Politics 


265 


ing worse than talking too much ; that was the 
worst they could do, as they had no arms, ammu- 
nition or money; but the mainsprings here, safe 
under the protection of another flag, made them 
believe that great things were about to happen, 
and I suppose some of them really thought they 
were drilling. The kind of drilling that could 
be done under the circumstances would not be 
any more effective in real war than if they had 
practiced drilling a potato patch with a hand 
plow. When drilling men, for war, you need the 
implements of war, and those they did not have ; 
so they were merely the tools of men who had 
axes to grind. And the steady march of prog- 
ress, in Ireland, was halted for at least fifteen 
years. 

After quiet was restored, ‘‘The Church Dises- 
tablishment Act’’ was passed, and the people 
were relieved of paying taxes which they had no 
right to pay. In 1879, “The Zulu War” oc- 
curred, and in 1881 “The Boer War,” in both of 
which the* Irish soldiers distinguished them- 
selves, as usual, and the first great “Land Act” 
was passed in recognition of their prowess. 

Shortly afterwards, “The Gladstone Home 
Rule Bill” went through “The House of Com- 
mons,” only to be thrown out by that noble 
aggregation of heiress hunters (regardless, etc.) 
who are the legitimate offspring of a licentious 
past. 


266 


The Dawn 


When the last Boer war ended, all England 
went wild over the heroic deeds of the Irish 
soldiers, from general to private. 

Green flags were carried through the streets 
of London and everyone from prince to pauper 
was wearing shamrocks. I saw a Russian ped- 
dler, with cadaverous aspect and Siberian 
whiskers, walking around with a tray harnessed 
in front of him, on which was piled some sham- 
rocks, and not a little clover. He was yelling 
at the top of his voice, in what he supposed to 
be English, “Cham-rucks ! — Cham-rucks ! ! A 
bob py the bounch.” At first he was not sure 
whether they were to be used as a salad or to 
feed the rabbits, so he had them tied up in little 
bunches, like water cress or soup-greens, but 
his business instincts and his eyes soon un- 
tangled the enigma and he reduced the size of 
the bunches and arranged them more loosely. 

At that time a Donegal accent or a Kerry 
brogue was all the capital a man needed to work 
his way into society, anywhere from “The 
Land's End” to the “Grampion Hills.” The 
cockney and costermonger were more pro-Irish 
than the Belfast Orangeman. There was more 
green bunting displayed, more shamrocks worn, 
more speeches of approval made on “The 
Thames Embankment,” than have been seen or 
heard within “The walls o’ Darry” since “The 
Act of the Union.” 

Was all that excitement and omnipresent en- 


A Chapter on Politics 


267 


thusiasm caused by an irresistible desire on the 
part of the English people to show honor to the 
eighty-six Irish members of Parliament? 

Hardly! The Irish soldiers had just returned 
from Africa, after having distinguished them- 
selves more than ever, because there were more 
of them in it, and Parliament voted, almost 
unanimously, $560,000,000 to buy the land from 
the landlords in Ireland for the people. There 
will be no more evictions, no more tears, and 
the people will not be afraid to build factories 
on the land, because they will own it. 

Another side of the question presents itself. 
Would Ireland be as well off alone? or would 
she be better off if everlastingly joined to Eng- 
land and Scotland by an offensive and defensive 
alliance ? 

Geography would say, unite ! The politician 
would answer, disrupt! 

Let us consider both sides of that question. 
Suppose that England said, “Go it alone and 
work out your own salvation.” 

There are several great powers in Europe 
who are anxious to acquire ports where skating 
is not good in the winter — Russia, for instance. 
There are several ports along the Irish coast 
that could be made the greatest harbors in the 
world. Killabegs can hold the whole Russian 
fleet, and be made stronger than Port Arthur. 
Well! suppose Russia should help herself to the 
place and Barney Flynn went home from Amer- 


26S 


The Dawn 


ica to his sister Annie’s wedding in Belleek, and 
she happened to be married on the Donegal side 
of the river, the chances are that he would be 
Uncle Barney, before all the passports necessary 
to take him across the river would be signed 
and scrutinized. 

Suppose France to be the governing power, 
and Johnny McCann found it necessary to go 
back for his baptismal certificate, he might be 
compelled to hunt up “the procurer general” or 
“the minister of justice” to learn what island the 
priest who baptized him had been exiled to, or, 
if Germany was ruling and some young fellow 
had taken French leave at about the time he 
was ripe to be picked for the army, and some 
family joy or trouble called him back, he would 
need all his Irish wit to satisfy “Der Kaizer” 
that he did it for a joke. Some people cannot 
penetrate to the pith of a joke as quickly as 
others, and he might loose his job because of the 
length of his absence. The oil inspectors at the 
city hall might have been changed. For my 
part I would rather see Ireland, Scotland and 
England holding the same relation to each 
other, as Illinois, Indiana and Iowa, each hav- 
ing state rights and a state government, with 
a central government for all, such as the United 
States Government. United thus, they would 
have the strongest government in the world. 
Divided, they would be the footballs of the 
Atlantic Ocean, if I may use the expression. 


A Chapter on Politics 


269 


where the gridiron is so wet. If the present 
king of England lives long enough, I believe the 
whole thing will be settled right. He is un- 
doubtedly the best king that England ever had, 
and the most popular that any country ever had. 

He it is that may be thanked for that little 
matter of 560 millions. 

That amount of money would build about 150 
battleships, but if he carries out the plans that 
he has evidently formulated, he has added more 
strength to his kingdom than 1,000 battleships 
would give, because the strength he- has added 
needs no coal, or coaling stations, to keep it 
effective. 

Give the Irishman a home, where his old 
father and mother, after a life of toil, can wait 
complacently for the final call, dreading not the 
landlord’s whim or the emergencyman’s batter- 
ing-ram, and when the tocsin of war sounds over 
the green hills that are his to protect, his sons 
will spring up like mushrooms over night and 
defend them, with the ability so long proven 
and found not wanting. 

A man sees more reasons in a week on the field 
of battle for such a union or alliance than he 
would see in a lifetime at home. I have seen 
men from all three countries tear the bandages 
that were placed on their wounds by the surgeon 
into pieces of equal size, so that each could have 
a little. 

I have seen an Englishman give the last drop 


270 


The Dawn 


from his canteen to his Irish fellow-sufferer, and 
vice versa. 

I have seen all three, dead together, with 
their hands joined in the last evidence of a 
noble friendship. I noticed, too, that when the 
life-blood of all three had trickled into the same 
puddle, it did not congeal in separate masses — 
it fused. 

For that very reason I cannot see why it 
should not fuse while it is warm and pulsating. 
The time is gone by for civilized peoples to keep 
up an irreconcilable hatred when the trouble 
that led to it, is removed or softened. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


AMERICA. 

I was not very long back in Ireland, till I 
found that I could not make both ends meet in 
a financial way, as it would be necessary for 
me to have a substantial income in addition to 
my pay to live in the whirl of social life in which 
an army officer finds himself while on home 
service. I tried to exchange into a regiment on 
foreign service, or about to go out, but found 
that there were too many in the same financial 
fix that I found myself in. The Durands having 
lost their titles some centuries ago on account 
of disturbing family quarrels, I could not hope 
for an American heiress to keep the pot boiling, 
so, as America would not come to me, I deter- 
mined to go to America. 

I retired from the service, therefore, and 
came here. When I landed in New York I was 
hardly prepared for what I saw and heard. I 
saw the most aristocratic city of Democrats in 
the world. The brown stone mansion was in 
the next lot to the frame cottage of the work- 
man, but the occupants were farther apart than 
oil and water, and there was evidently a wider, 
deeper and broader line drawn between the 
classes than I had been led to believe. The 
upper classes spoke, or tried to speak, like the 
271 


272 


The Dawn 


English nobility, but their tutors must have been 
imported coachmen, as they played the very 
‘‘old ’arry” with r's and h’s. A car was a 
“kaw’' and a bird was a “boid.’' A girl was a 
“goir' and Third Avenue was “Thoid Avenoo,” 
and so on. “Daunt che-naow” was used in the 
most absurd ways imaginable, and their trousers 
actually came with a “roll up'’ tailored in them, 
and English colloquial expressions were used in 
the most mal-apropos places and ways. I 
learned from them that Chicago was a good 
sized frontier town and that big game was plen- 
tiful there. 

I got another surprise when I reached Chi- 
cago. Here I found real Americans who spoke 
English just as I did, who acted naturally and 
unaffectedly, who used all 26 letters of the 
alphabet, and I verily believe they would have 
used more if they had them, as they were 
given to expansion and adding to things, mental 
and material. In Chicago I did not notice that 
wide chasm between the classes ; in fact, things 
were overdone in the other direction — no man 
being too big to be called “Phil” or “Jack,” but 
as both classes seemed to enjoy it, I thought 
it was far better than the cold formality of the 
East, where two men who were equals a few 
years previously were separated forever, because 
one of them stubbed his toe o-n a rock that 
turned out to be gold. 

The American of the great West is the man- 


America 


273 


liest and most unselfish character on earth. He 
is never too busy to stop and direct a foreigner 
where to go, and he has a helping hand for 
every one. Jew, Turk, Atheist or Christian is 
all the same to him. If he sees a man who is 
making an honest effort to succeed he places 
no obstacle in his path. I have been in many 
countries and studied the characters of the dif- 
ferent races, and I must say that the truest, 
manliest hospitality in the world is to be found 
in Ireland and America. A stranger can go 
into either country and get rich, if he has the 
ability, without rousing the jealousy of a soul. 
I am so thoroughly satisfied with America and 
Americans that, all conditions being equal, I 
hardly know whether I would rather live in Ire- 
land or here. 

I studied medicine when I came here, but 
came to the conclusion that I would never be a 
bright light in surgery on account of one of my 
experiences in Africa, that of the burial of the 
dead, after the butchery at “Isandhlwana,” when 
my stomach refused to be uninterested. When 
I went into the amphitheater in the usual course 
of surgical research and was perforce brought 
into too close contact with the (not too recently 
animated) subjects there, I was unfortunately 
using the same rebellious stomach that I had 
worn at that sepulture, and it was still grossly 
insubordinate and kept doing things that were 
not in good form, and would be far better left un- 


274 


The Dawn 


done. I would not back out, or retreat, however, 
till I took the “counterscarp” by storm, crossed 
the “ditch” and scaled both “scarp” and “bas- 
tion” and tore the “sheepskin” from the enemy’s 
guns. I never used it, however, except as a 
keepsake. 

I tried the law next, but my heart and con- 
science rebelled against the conditions there, 
while the stomach, only, was opposed to the 
other profession. I don’t want it understood 
that I believed all lawyers dishonorable, far from 
it, but I, in my ignorance of conditions here, did 
not know how to discriminate, so I studied 
criminal law, and when I learned its ins and 
outs I would not practice it for money or fame ; 
I would not prosecute any one, and I certainly 
would not defend a criminal. My experience is^ 
that there are very few innocent men tried for 
criminal offenses. There are many guilty men 
acquitted, but few, very few, innocent men con- 
victed, but such is the elasticity of the law and 
it did not suit my stilted ideas of honor at all. 
And to bring in an expressive bit of slang, for 
the first and last time, “I passed it up.” 

I was at my wit’s ends to find something that 
I could do, and was talking to a friend, in his 
office, when the thing was solved for me in a 
few minutes. 

A fine, manly looking young man of about 
six and twenty, and speaking with a soft Irish 
accent — not a brogue — came in and, seeing us 


America 


275 


in conversation, was about to back out when 
my friend got up and shook hands with him 
warmly, and turning to me, said, “Captain! I 
want to introduce you to my friend, Mr. 
O’Sullivan, who is one of the best posted men 
on literature or anything else, that I have ever 
met.” 

“Well! old man,” he said, “what have you 
got?” 

Mr. O’Sullivan sat down and stated the nature 
of his business in a quiet, though positive way, 
as if he knew his subject well. 

He was selling a set of “History of the 
World.” It was so arranged that each history 
was written by the acknowledged authority on 
that country. He went on to say that hereto- 
fore the only works on history that covered the 
world were one man affairs, and consequently 
not history at all, but merely a series of ex- 
tended essays on history. He stated the case so 
clearly, so logically, that I ordered a set myself, 
and I was closely followed by my friend. 

After a few minutes conversation, the young 
man left, but he left a good impression behind 
him. You involuntarily felt that you would like 
to meet him again. 

When he was gone, my friend said, “There is 
a man to whom I took a fancy the first time I 
met him. I was slightly prejudiced against 
Irishmen for some reason for which I never 
could account, but he swept away the prejudice 


276 


The Dawn 


as if by magic, and after he had gone I said to 
a friend, Tf there are many more like him where 
he came from, they must be an intelligent crowd 
to meet. We had an all afternoon’s conversa- 
tion recently, on every subject on the earth and 
beneath it, and I am at a loss to know how he 
could accumulate all he knows at his age.’ 

‘‘You noticed that there was nothing strained, 
nothing artificial about his manner of presenting 
his goods. Some men who come in here taking 
orders for law-books and classical works de- 
liver a set speech, and as you listen you know 
that they must have sweat blood while com- 
mitting it to memory; their tongues, unaccus- 
tomed to words of more than two syllables, halt 
and jolt and slur over the big ones, and you 
mentally exclaim, poor fellow! your place is on 
the front end of a street car, or pilot on a hack. 

“O’Sullivan has his regular customers,” he 
continued, “who are increasing all the time, and, 
like an endless chain, one man introduces him to 
another, knowing that he will never be called to 
account for doing it.” 

I said to myself, “Durand, my boy! that is 
your occupation from this time forth — first sales- 
man, then manager, publisher or importer of a 
higher grade of classical works than those placed 
on the market at present.” 

Well! I went into the business, and after the 
first five years I had all the customers I could 


America 


277 

attend to, and I did not have to seek new cus- 
tomers, they sought me. 

My customers are also my friends, so I must 
have made an impression something akin to that 
made by O’Sullivan. 

Most of the lines I handle are imported and 
costly, but beautiful. When I entered the busi- 
ness, $50.00 was the high-water mark for a set 
of books. Now, $50.00 per volume is not con- 
sidered high among the class of customers I 
cater to. 

Fortunes have been made very rapidly in the 
last ten years, and as men become wealthy their 
artistic tastes are developed with their bank 
accounts. 

The society woman, too, has been learning 
for some time that a well selected, beautifully 
bound library of choice literature goes farther 
in showing refinement than a well stuffed jewel 
case, and she acts accordingly. 

There are, of course, expensive fads that 
afford opportunities for outside display and sat- 
isfaction of vanity. 

As long as the price of the bicycle kept it away 
from the masses, it was the fad, but when 
m’lady began to meet her husband’s stenog- 
rapher awheel, she came to the conclusion that 
it was injurious, and the wheel was gone. 

The prevailing fad is the automobile (so- 
called, because it will not move of itself, except 


278 


The Dawn 


as its caprices dictate and the trained machinist 
directs). 

• All you can say in favor of the ^‘auto’' is, that 
it is a visible sign of invisible wealth, especially 
so in the taxing season. It certainly is not as 
beautiful as the old family carriage, with its 
proud stepping horses and smart livery, nor is it 
as safe as the buggy. 

Neither the lady nor the ‘‘gent” can look 
natty in the “auto.” She has her pretty face 
hidden behind a horrid mask of goggles and dust 
pads ; he looks like a galley slave, peeping fur- 
tively through the portholes of a convict ship, 
and his expression is just as wild as the convict’s. 

He cannot show her his love for the beautiful 
in nature, by calling her attention to a lovely 
bit of scenery, as neither can see it, anyway. 
He cannot drink in the dulcet melody of her well 
modulated voice, as she can only grunt at him, 
and he grunts back at her, through the dust 
pads. Even though the dust pads are properly 
adjusted, both of them have absorbed large 
quantities of disintegrated North America. 

He has taken her on this trip for a purpose, 
so he runs the machine to the most beautiful 
spot he knows, and, on the mossy bank of a 
clear, translucent lake in the woods, he pro- 
poses, and is accepted. Just think of his disgust 
when he puts a big diamond ring on a dirty 
finger, and is compelled for sanitary reasons to 
wash her face, before he can seal the compact 


America 


279 


with a kiss. Away, then! thou gasoline be- 
grimed thing of caprices and foul smells, to the 
scrap-pile, and let us have back the dear old 
dainty carriage of our grandmothers, with its 
unmistakable air of luxury, aristocracy and re- 
finement. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


THE HOTEL DEBONNAIRE. 

When I was in this country about four years 
I was making a trip through one of the Western 
states and doing a splendid business, getting 
new customers that I have held all the time 
since. I had just finished a town and was pre- 
paring to leave, by looking up the maps and 
railroad guides. I noticed that there was quite 
a large town half way between the place I had 
just finished and the next town on my list; I 
would have to change cars there, too, so I 
*‘wired” the manager, asking him why it was 
not on my itinerary. His answer was, “Don’t 
stop at that town, state of decay, no list.” 

I either had such supreme confidence in my- 
self or thought there was some m.otive back of 
his request to cut it out, that I determined to 
go there anyway, and I did. 

It was in March, and there was deep snow on 
the ground. Another storm had been threaten- 
ing all day, and at dusk a regular blizzard set 
in. The snow was coming down fast, and the 
wind was blowing a gale, gathering it into long, 
deep drifts, the sharp, pointed ridges curling at 
the top like waves breaking on a sandy beach, 
and the fine particles swirling in the air and al- 
most taking one’s breath away. 


The Hotel Debonnaire 


281 


The train pulled out from the station at 9 
o’clock at night, and went snorting and plowing 
through the deep banks of snow, throwing it in 
all directions. 

When we got outside the limits of the town 
the conditions grew worse, and one could tell 
from the quadruple coughs of the exhaust, that 
the engine was having a hard time getting 
through. 

When about half way to Bluffville — my desti- 
nation — the train came to a full stop and was 
stalled there for a couple of hours. All the men 
got out and shovelled till the cutting was 
cleared, and the train proceeded at a lo-mile- 
an-hour pace, finally arriving at Bluffville at 2 
o’clock in the morning. The hotel runners had 
long since abandoned hope of its arrival at all, 
so they had gone home. 

I was the only passenger for this point, so 
when I looked around for somebody from a 
hotel I found nobody there, and when I went 
to ask the agent to direct me to a hotel, he, too, 
was gone. I could see the dim flicker of his 
lantern away down the track, through the blind- 
ing snow. There I was, alone in the dark, with- 
out the slightest idea as to which way I should 
go. I could see trees on one side and a dim 
flickering light in the opposite direction, so I 
started towards the light. 

I said a few prayers that are not usually set 
to church music as I started over a bridge that 


282 


The Dawn 


led to I knew not whither, and cared less, so 
long as a shelter, and a bed, was at the other 
end. 

I thought of that other night when, as a boy, 
I plodded on, blindly as now, and I almost feared 
that I would stumble over a deserted baby in 
each deep drift. When I crossed the bridge I 
started along a street, with the river on one 
side and tall, dark buildings on the other. I 
looked up to see what manner of architecture 
and class of business they would show, when, 
to my astonishment, I found that they. were 
vacant, the windows out and the roofs fallen 
in, and I thought of that telegram, “In state 
of decay, no list.’’ 

“Suspicious fool!” I ejaculated, “why didn’t 
you take the advice of the man in a position to 
know what this place is?” And yet I could not 
do any different, I could not go on, as the train 
I would have taken was gone hours before I 
got in. Well! I am here, and I must do the best 
I can, so I started on down that street. 

The wind was sighing and moaning a dirge 
through those deserted buildings, and the river 
was murmuring its sorrowful requiem, the snow 
was coming down as if it intended to bury the 
earth for aye, the wind whirled it into my face 
in shovelfuls and sifted it down my neck, where 
it melted and kept on going. I turned my back 
to the wind and looked all round, but not a light, 
not a sound anywhere. 


The Hotel Debonnaire 


283 


I compared it to Africa, and the comparison 
was in favor of Africa. There, the roar of the 
lion, the rasping snarl of the hyena, the sharp 
yelp of the jackal, and the chattering of the 
apes, made you feel that there was something 
living around you, but here, even the dogs 
seemed to have been created deaf and dumb, 
and the cats to have become somnolent. 

I went in that direction for another block, but 
there the town ended ; I turned back, and, after 
walking to the bridge again and a block beyond, 
I got into a real street, with buildings on each 
side. The weight of snow I was carrying was 
equalized since the wind was in my back, and I 
felt more comfortable. 

In another minute I saw a little, sickly, yellow 
light in a nebulous border of dark blue across 
the street. I stumbled through the piling snow 
to investigate it, and. Eureka ! it was a hotel. 

I went in, but there was nobody in sight. I 
dropped a big “grip” with a thud on the floor, 
and I thought I* heard an interrupted snore. I 
shook myself like a Newfoundland dog to get 
rid of the snow, and when I had stamped a while 
I must have disturbed the dead, for an appari- 
tion appeared to me, a gaunt head rose slowly 
from behind the desk. As it grew taller, I 
saw that it was a long, lank, lantern-jawed 
youth of an uncertain age, with hair as white as 
an Albino, and pink eyes, like those of a ferret. 
As he elongated himself he stretched a pair of 


284 


The Dawn 


long, bony arms above his head, till I thought 
he had sinister designs on the ceiling; as he did 
so, he opened his mouth till his head actually 
tilted back in a yawn that was positively geo- 
graphical in its proportions, and I mentally 
thanked heaven that I was not a pie. 

“Have you got a room?” I enquired. 

“Ya! ya! suah.” So I registered. 

“Vat briced room you vant?” he asked. 

“What priced rooms have you got?” I asked. 

“Fumptcy tcentz.” 

“Any others?” I enquired, “with heat in 
them?” 

“Nicht, only fumptcy tcentz.” 

“Well! give me one of them, quick, I am 
tired.” 

“Vere you gum from?” he asked. 

“Dicksville.” 

“How you gum! schled?” 

“No, I walked, and I am tired and want to go 
to bed.” 

“Veil, gum to bed yet,” and picking up a lamp 
that was evidently made for a doll’s house, he 
led the way up a pair of stairs wide enough for 
a theater. He went down a hall that would do 
for the center aisle of a market house, and com - 
ing to the last door on the left, he pushed it 
• open, and a gush of cold air came out in our 
faces that made both of us cough, as a person 
does when he comes out of a warm house into 
a stiff breeze of zero weather. The room was. 


The Hotel Debonnaire 285 

I should judge, twenty feet square, and looked 
more, because of the paucity of furniture in it. 

There was a tall, old-fashioned bed, backed 
up against the wall, in the center of the room ; 
there was a chair beside the head of the bed. 
At the other end of the room, opposite the foot 
of the bed, there was a little, home-made wash- 
stand; back of this, and tacked to the wall with 
four carpet tacks, was a square of toweling on 
which was worked in “sampler stitch,” with red 
thread, in large italics, the legend, “Don’t 
splash.” In the very center of the immense 
expanse of wall, to the left, hung a looking- 
glass with deep pockmarks in the quicksilver at 
the back, that made it look for all the world like 
a photograph of the moon, mounted and set in 
that little oval frame. 

In leaving a little hand-satchel on the only 
receptacle except the bed, it bumped into the 
basin and pitcher, disclosing the fact that the 
latter was empty. 

I mentioned the self-evident fact to the boy, 
that the injunction on the toweling was inoper- 
ative tonight. 

“Ya, suah, there is an operator at the Chunc- 
tion,” he returned. 

“Oh ! I was referring to the empty pitcher,” I 
said. 

“Oh ! ya ! ya ! he is embdy, ve feil him in da 
morgen,” he said. “If ve leaf vadtha in him 
by de nacht, he vill frieze him up, and schplidt 


286 


The Dawn 


by de morgen. Veil! gooten nacht!” and he 
was gone. 

I saw clearly that I must hurry to bed, as the 
lamp was showing signs of being tired, too. 

I found that the bed was not the kind that 
“mother used to make.” It had two sheets, a 
white cotton quilt, or counterpane, and a “com- 
forter,” which was rolled up at the foot. I 
hurriedly undressed and got into bed, and rolled 
myself up, but heaven! what were those lumps? 
On investigation, I found that the comforter had 
shifted its cargo, so to speak, and, instead of an 
even distribution of its vitals, the stuffing had 
drifted, like the snow outside, into ridges and 
hillocks, about a foot apart, and as I could not 
induce them to fit into the curves or hollow 
places in my anatomy, I got my ulster and put 
it next to the counterpane and got into bed 
again, pulling that strange archipelago of kopjes 
over all, to add weight to the things I said about 
hotels in general, and this one in particular, so T 
fell asleep, talking real “sassy.” 

In those days I could always tell the politics 
of the landlord by the bed, if a Republican; by 
the table, if a Democrat, and by the general 
atmosphere of sanctimonious starvation, if he 
was a Prohibitionist. 

The Republican howled for a tariff on wool, 
but the only wool in the house was in the car- 
pets and the pie. The Democrat cried for free 
trade, on the necessaries of life, but he never 


The Hotel Debonnaire 287 

put them on the table. And the Prohibitionist 
never gave you anything warm, not even a 
smile, fearing it might lead you to “rum” ; they 
always call it rum, too, whether it is made out 
of hops, corn, rye or tobacco and alcohol; he 
fed you on sour things that made you screw 
your face, and the only heat in the house was 
in the mustard pot. 

I yearned to see a matrimonial bureau spring 
into existence, the object of which would be to 
promote marriages between Republican hotel- 
keepers who were spinsters and Democratic 
hotelkeepers who were bachelors, so that the 
traveling public might expect to find blankets 
and food at the same hostelry. 

In Europe it takes several generations to 
change a time-established custom, but in this 
country it is different; when a change comes 
here, it is quick, radical and far reaching. 

When I commenced to travel here twenty 
years ago, at the best hotels in the country 
we had frost and cotton, now we have steam 
heat and blankets. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THE VISION OF AN ANGEL. 

After I had breakfasted the next morning, I 
went out to take a look at what I supposed would 
prove to be a replica of “The deserted village,’’ 
but to my surprise, I found it to be quite an im- 
posing town, and, as I learned afterwards, a rich 
one. During the day I met a young business 
man of gentlemanly appearance and actions, and 
as it had almost become second nature with me 
to study men’s characters from their faces, I put 
him through the mill and the decision was, trust 
him, believe in him ; and I certainly found the 
correct estimate of him, for I have liked him 
to this day. He told me that when the town 
was first settled the little river that pursued its 
sullen and muddy way through the place, had 
been quite an important stream, and had been 
navigable to this point, and that the largest pack- 
ets on the Missouri River had been able to come 
right up to the levee on Main street. The build- 
ings, that are now dilapidated and in ruins, had 
then been busy marts and warehouses. In the 
course of time, though, the newly-tilled soil of 
the hillside farms was washed down, filling up 
the river to such an extent that navigation was 
soon an impossibility. The railroads, too, push- 
ing their way into the interior of the vast prairies 

288 


The Vision of an Angel 289 

beyond, rendered this distributing point unnec- 
essary, and it ceased to grow. Some more rail- 
roads tapping the adjacent villages, it began to 
take a retrograde movement, till it finally ad- 
justed itself to the wants of the surrounding 
country, and there it stood. The people made 
hay while the sun shone, however, and the town 
is rich. 

Either myself, or the goods I was handling, 
made a decided hit, for I was doing a rushing 
business, and the big cash sales were coming 
with delightful regularity. I never said a word 
to “the house,” in all the time I was there, first, 
because I wanted to do something to justify my- 
self for going there at all, and then when I saw 
a wonderful business promised, I wanted to have 
a good joke on the manager. I intended to sur- 
prise him, but I was surprising myself more and 
more every day. 

When I passed the century mark, I felt that 
I was a star of the first magnitude, but when 
I added fifty more to my fat bunch of orders, I 
felt that nothing short of an ovation awaited my 
declaration to headquarters. By the time I had 
been a fortnight in the town I had sold nearly 
$9,000 worth of goods, and I concluded to send 
in my order, and rake the manager fore and aft, 
so I wired for 175 sets at $50.00 each, and the fell 
work was accomplished. I got back this answer 
and query: 

“For heaven’s sake, are you in earnest?” 


290 


The Dawn 


I answered: “Yes! dead earnest, live town/’ 

The next day I got a letter thanking me for 
the unprecedented business and telling me that 
about one-third of the goods I wanted had been 
shipped, but the balance had been ordered from 
New York by wire, to come direct to me. I had 
all that were shipped to me delivered and, as I 
knew it would take at least ten days to get the 
balance of my order from New York, I intended 
to go on to my next town and come back when 
the goods had arrived. 

I had spent every evening at the store of my 
new-found friend, whose name was Frederick W. 
Beresford. We had by this time become fast 
friends. He was not of the inquisitive kind, con- 
sequently he had asked me no questions about 
the place of my birth. He knew, of course, that 
I was Irish, and that was all he seemed to care, 
so we just took each other at our face value, as 
young men usually do in America. He had given 
me quite a few pointers of a business kind, so I 
went to the store this evening to say au revoir 
to him before leaving. 

He told me that a lady had just left the store 
who requested him to ask me to call on her, as 
she was anxious to place her order for my goods. 
As I was averse to going to a private house, on 
any account, I told him so, but as he had told 
her that I would call, I hated to refuse, so I 
promised to stay over for a day and call on her. 

The next morning I did call, and found that 


The Vision of an Angel 291 

she was the leading society woman of the town. 
She went out for her brother and sister, who 
lived in an adjoining house, and I got orders 
from all three. She then wrote three notes of 
introduction to lady friends in the immediate 
vicinity and asked me to call on them, and as I 
might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, 
I complied with her request. I took an order 
from the first, and when I knocked at the door 
of the second I wondered why they had a 
knocker instead of a bell. 

Before I had figured it out, the door opened 
and a vision of all that is good and sweet and 
pure in young girlhood stood on the threshold. 

A man who was brought up in Ireland knows 
the eye of purity when he sees it, and here it 
was, and with it was the cheek of health, the 
figure of gentility, and the calm sweet face of a 
sister of charity. That face, that will remain 
calm when danger and death hover near, that 
will remain to soothe, when people with bolder 
faces will become hysterical and useless. And 
here was a roguish little smile, too, that I must 
have seen before in a dream, as it seemed to be 
not unfamiliar. 

I read her past and future in that first glance, 
and I read both well. Here was a girl to whom 
meanness and falsity were unknown, one that 
could never be led into vice or driven to infidel- 
ity, who would love forever and hunger for the 
love that should be returned, and droop and die 


292 


The Dawn 


if it were denied her, who would suffer herself, 
to make the loved ones happy, who would deny 
herself the necessities so that they should have 
the luxuries, in fact, a girl without one fault in 
body or soul. 

When that sweet face looked out on me, as 
from a dream, I acted as if I were in a drearu. I 
was deaf, dumb and blind to all the world but 
her, and I longed not for a cure. 

She must have taken pity on me, for she said, 
“Mama’s name is Mrs. Darcy, did you wish to 
see her?” 

I looked stupidly at the note in my hand, and 
I am sure the wrong side was up, but as that 
is the way all men in the publishing business 
read, during business hours at least, so that the 
other party to the deal can see the thing the 
natural way, it made little difference to me, but 
it must have looked ludicrous to her, so I got the 
name correctly, and in a hesitating way asked: 

“Does Mrs. Darcy live here?” She burst out 
into a clear, silvery laugh and said : 

“Yes, I will bring her,” and she was gone, but 
I knew that my heart had come to life again. 
The promethean influence of that musical laugh 
had raised it from the dead, it had burst the cold 
bands that had bound it, and the warm blood 
thrilled its every fiber, and she had been taken in 
there, whole, to remain its only occupant till 
the worms in the grave had robbed her of her 
home. I wondered if she had taken me for some 


The Vision of an Angel 


293 


half-witted enthusiast who had come there to so- 
licit old clothes for the savages of Timbiictoo, 
who do not wear clothes, while the poorer in- 
mates of the slums of Chicago, who do need 
them, have no one to solicit for them, because 
it is not so romantic, you know; besides the 
county agent attends to them, if he has any- 
thing left after his own family has been attended 
to. A dozen such thoughts, or whole trains of 
thought, passed through my mind in the next 
four seconds. She was the general superin- 
tendent, freight and passenger agent, auditor, 
train dispatcher and conductor of more trains of 
thought that passed through my brain, wild, 
scheduled and ditched, during the next six 
months, than I ever want to see tabulated. 

At last her mother came, and I was invited to 
come in. And the “talk” I made in describing 
those books would be the envy of the largest 
lunatic asylum in all this land. The strangest 
part of it was that I took an order away with 
me. Who wrote the contract, or signed it, I 
have not the faintest recollection. 

I know that when I was describing the beau- 
ties of the work, the type looked to me like rows 
of little pearly teeth ; there were two rosebud 
lips somewhere on the coast of China ; the loveli- 
est dimples I had ever seen were in the heart 
of Africa, the most becoming, most fascinating, 
golden “bangs” in the whole world, were curled 
over the Rock of Gibralter, and the sweetest lit- 


294 


The Dawn 


tie smile that ever mortal man was charmed by, 
was on the Western Hemisphere, and I loved the 
whole world. 

I did no more work that day. I would not 
desecrate the picture I carried away in my heart 
by looking on any woman, young or old, till I 
got a chance to just sit and think of it. It was 
a waste of time, though, for that picture needed 
not the dark room or the retoucher’s art to make 
it clear and indelible, as I have never lost sight 
of it since, just as it looked there in that door, 
and I know it will never change. Was there 
ever so many good qualities collected together 
before? I asked myself then. I am asking myself 
that same question now. 

Well! I just clung to that town, and the 
buildings looked better, the streets looked 
cleaner, the wind was singing hymns, and the 
river was rippling joyful melodies, and that 
sweet, young, guileless face was ever before me. 
Ah ! who could tell if I would ever meet- the 
original again. 

Perhaps I was doomed from my infancy to 
love only the things that were unattainable, and 
my heart turned cold and shivered at the 
thought. 

Banish the thought! I would win this treas- 
ure if I had to turn that river up hill. I would 
do anything on earth possible or impossible to 
win her, but one. I would do no dishonorable 
act even to win her. The Durands and dishonor 


The Vision of an Angel 


295 


do not belong to the same set. I knew that 
she would never meet another who would, or 
could, make such supreme efforts to insure her 
happiness always. 

Then a horrid picture would pass slowly by, 
and I could see her, lonely and neglected, while 
her husband caroused, and I cursed the villain. 
I could see her face turned pale, haggard and 
careworn, waiting, brooding, through the long 
night for the miserable scamp, who did not have 
enough sense to appreciate the beautiful flower 
that he left to wither and die at a cheerless 
hearth, alone. 

The film changed, and I saw her, happy and 
smiling, contented and beautiful, calm and se- 
rene, with some other little dimpled, smiling 
miniatures of herself around her, and I — mind 
you — reading to them, and I framed that pic- 
ture. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


FIRE BELLS. 

I went down next day to see my friend, Fred. 
Beresford, and tell him of my success, but not a 
word about the young girl ; that was too sacred 
a subject to speak of. He was delighted when 
he heard that my trip on the bluff had turned 
out so well, particularly so, as he was the cause 
of it. 

I showed him the bunch of orders and he 
turned them over, one by one, commenting on 
the financial stability of each person as he read 
the name. When he came to the last one he 
held it up, and smilingly said: 

“Well! I see you have gathered my mother 
into the fold with the rest.” 

I took it out of his hand and in a doubting 
tone of voice, said : 

“How on earth could she be your mother, her 
name being Darcy while yours is Beresford?” 

“Easy enough, my boy,” he said, “my mother 
was married twice. I am her son by the first 
husband, while my sister Julia is by her last 
husband. Colonel Darcy, who died of his wounds 
in Africa.” 

“The reason I took such an interest in you,” 
he continued, “on that first day when you came 
in was because of your name. When you 

296 


Fire Bells 297 

handed me your card, with the name Durand on 
it, I was interested in you right away, as the 
Colonel had a very dear friend of the same name, 
and an Irishman. Not the Colonel alone, but 
the whole family had reason to like the name 
and respect the bearers of it. I will tell you the 
whole story some evening, as I often intended 
doing but something always came up to prevent 
it.” 

“Good heavens!” I almost gasped. And for- 
tunately a customer came in at that moment 
and helped me to hide my confusion till I got 
time to regain my composure. So this sweet 
little girl is the “Julia Baby” of the mountain 
and the moor, and I knew that all I would have 
to do to get an opportunity of winning her, with 
everything in my favor, was to declare myself. 

My reverie was cut short by Fred coming 
back. “I might just as well give you the out- 
lines of the story now,” he said. 

“A young officer of your name brought the 
Colonel out of the jaws of death, but it was 
too late, and he died a couple of days afterwards. 
Durand was badly wounded, too, in trying to get 
the Colonel away from the Zulu butchers, and 
was in the hospital for quite a while, but his 
youth and strength pulled him through. Julia 
raves about him, not for that one act alone, but 
as I said, there was another reason why our 
family should think kindly of him. 

“When he was a little boy, he saved her life, 


298 


The Dawn 


too, for the poor baby would have died, alone, 
but for him. On the night of the greatest fair 
of the year, in a town near our home, she was 
stolen by a band of drunken tinkers who, get- 
ting frightened, evidently, abandoned her at a 
lonely cross-roads. The boy, through a mis- 
take, had been left alone in town and was on 
his way home when he heard the child cry. He 
took her in his arms and carried her for miles, 
till he found a shelter, and she was saved. 

“When she read of his promotion, she sang 
all over the house about ‘her bold soldier boy,’ 
and she was wild with delight. 

“She takes all the London magazines in which 
the movements of the military are published, so 
as to keep track of his regiment. I firmly believe 
that if she read of his death she would be in- 
consolable. 

“A sister of charity who attended both Du- 
rand and the Colonel in the field hospital, told 
us all about it, as it occurred. She also told 
us of the death-bed scene between them, and of 
Lieutenant Durand’s promise to visit us, but as 
he remained in Africa until after the Boer war, 
we had been long in this country when he came 
home. Julia has about given up hopes of ever 
seeing him. If she ever does, and they are both 
free of entanglements, I know what will hap- 
pen. 

“I never saw him at all, and mother saw him 
only once, when he was a little fellow, and Julia 


Fire Bells 


299 


was too young to remember him at all. Mother 
says he was a bright, curly headed little chap 
and made very little of the service he had ren- 
dered her. 

“By the way, mother wants you to come up 
to tea Sunday evening. She says she has some 
tea she got from home.” 

“You tell her I will accept her invitation with 
pleasure. That tea alone would be sufficient at- 
traction even if I were not so much interested in 
that namesake of mine,” and I said, inwardly, 
“that little sister of yours would be sufficient 
attraction to take me there if I had to go east 
and come around the whole circle, including Si- 
beria and the place where that tea grew.” 

I longed for Sunday more than I ever did be- 
fore. What if she is already engaged, I thought, 
and the thought was like a stab to the heart. 

If she were pledged to another, what then! 
The army! Any army! Here, there or any 
place, so long as it was fighting, or going to 
fight. The charge! that little song, the bullets 
sing, and oblivion. 

I would not kill myself or do anything foolish 
in war. Cowards and fools only do that. I 
would fight! fight like a tiger and die like one! 
But pshaw; where is the use in building obstruc- 
tions. Perhaps God had willed it when He sent 
me to find her, by the wayside, that this beauti- 
ful being should be my companion through a 
long life of felicity, and I knew that a life with 


300 The Dawn 

her would mean that. And hope, that beautiful 
thing without which life would be unendurable, 
that internal inspiration whose source we do 
not know, that makes life worth living, and robs 
death of half its terrors, that intangible, invis- 
ible Angel, always ahead, pointing to the bright 
things in store for us in this world and the next 
— Hope! Yes, I will hope. I will work, too. 
Hope expects us to help her to help us; when 
we do that, hope eliminates despair. 

I set my jaws, as one does when going into 
a desperate charge, and vowed within me that 
I would win her in spite of all obstacles. I would 
win her, too, on my merits — as I am, not as I 
was. I would not retain a wee curly headed boy 
as my attorney, nor call out the army to do 
my fighting. “If I am not strong enough to 
win her,” I said, “I am not strong enough to 
hold her when won.” 

Julia Darcy, and my earthly happiness, would 
be the stakes, and I would not use marked 
cards. 

A smile, and if I must say it, a flush, came to 
my face, as the thought passed through my mind 
that I had kissed her, and I would work like a 
slave for a whole year for that blessed privilege 
now. 

My heart warmed, too, as I thought of the 
time that I had her in my arms, with her head 
against my breast, as I trudged along that bleak 
road in Ireland. If we were on that same road 


II 

Fire Bells 301 

now it would be one of the lovely avenues of 
Paradise. She told me that she loved me on 
that road, too, and it is a highway of Paradise. 

There was small chance of any of them pene- 
trating my secret. Nobody in this country knew 
anything about my past life, and they would not 
be liable to meet anyone from home in this 
out-of-the-way place, so I could keep within my- 
self. 

When I came to America there was a good 
deal of friction with England. It was pointed to 
as a horrible example by a certain class of poli- 
ticians, who did not believe half what they said ; 
neither did their audiences, but the idea got 
out somehow that to be a good American one 
must hate England, so they looked on her as 
their dearest enemy. As it did not tend to a 
man’s popularity to declare that he was a British 
army officer, I had to keep quiet on the sub- 
ject or be in an everlasting broil. I never heard 
British soldiers abusing Americans during my 
time as a soldier, and I was not a little surprised 
to hear Americans abusing them, till I learned 
that they were those creatures who allow a pen- 
ny newspaper to do their thinking. They are the 
class who vote for a button regardless of the 
man and the principles back of it, who inherit 
their politics like their susceptibility to the 
whooping cough. In the last few years even 
that condition is wearing away and the people 
are thinking for themselves more and more 


302 


The Dawn 


every year. The climax came at the last elec- 
tion, when the people for the first time voted 
almost unanimously for a man, a gentleman and 
a soldier, with brain and brawn and heart, and 
I believe they voted right under the circum- 
stances. As I pay little attention to parties, but 
always vote for the man I believe will do the 
most good for the most people, I was with the 
popular majority last election. 

I called at Fred.'s store every day and on 
the following afternoon, which was Sunday, I 
met him on the street. He asked me to go to 
the store with him while he would write a couple 
of letters on matters which would not brook de- 
lay, after which, he said, we would go up to his 
mother’s home to partake of that imported tea. 

We had been smoking and chatting for a 
while, after the letters were written, but were 
on the point of starting to mail them when the 
Sunday stillness was broken by the clamorous 
ringing of the fire bells. 

I learned in the next minute that he was the 
chief of the volunteer fire department. At the 
first clang of the bells, he darted to the rear of 
the store, where he kept his service clothes, 
and as he did so, the front door opened and his 
sister, radiant in her fresh young beauty, which 
was heightened by the fresh March wind, en- 
tered and came back to where I was standing. 
She just noticed me, but that was all. Anybody 
would have noticed me, because I know I had 


Fire Bells 


303 


more blood in my face than in all the rest of 
my body. I noticed the suspicion of a smile, and 
I thought a little more color than the wind was 
responsible for. It was so slight though, that 
I could hardly see my way clear to base any 
hopes on it. She patted the big dog at my feet, 
and I envied the poor brute the pleasure of that 
caressing touch of her little white hand. 

Her umbrella fell with a clatter on my foot, 
and as I picked it up and handed it to her she 
begged my pardon with enough commiseration 
in the tone of her voice to pay for the leg itself. 

Fred came out of the closet fully dressed in 
the trappings of his office, and taking me by the 
arm led me up to her, saying: 

“Julia, allow me to present my friend, Mr. Du- 
rand.” 

I thought I noticed a slight emphasis on that 
Mr. but I was not sure. 

She bowed her permission, so he introduced 
us formally. He gave me the keys and asked me 
to mail the letters for him, and then go up to the 
house with Julia. I took the letters and we went 
out, locking the door as we left. 

I was alone at last with my heart’s greatest 
desire, and I hardly knew what to say to her. 
I was never what is known as a lady’s man. Here 
was the second girl that I had ever taken more 
than a passing interest in. 

The first I had given that passionate adora- 
tion of a boy, that is just as likely to be lavished 


304 


The Dawn 


on pockmarks and big feet as anything else, and 
rarely lasts a year. Mine was more abiding than 
that, though, as the little lady had neither pock- 
marks nor big feet, but was a pretty little lass 
withal. 

Here was the love of a man of 27 who had 
been over a good part of the world, had met with 
as good as it had to offer, and was still free of 
all entanglements till I met this young girl. 
When we mailed the letters we were jostled by 
the hurrying crowd, who were rushing from all 
directions to the fire. I asked her if we would 
go 'directly to her mother’s house, but she said 
we might as well go with the crowd — and we 
did. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

‘A FLASH FROM THE GRAVE.’ 


When we got to the top of the bluff we found 
that a stable had been set on fire, it was claimed 
maliciously. It was burning fiercely when we 
got there, and the sparks and brands were falling 
all around. A cry went up that the house was 
on fire, and in a few minutes the whole upper 
story was a mass of flame. 

The glass in the upstairs windows began to 
crack and fall, and the smoke to pour through 
the empty sashes. The wind had freshened, too, 
and the house was doomed. All at once a cry 
of horror arose, and it was declared that the 
doctor's old and bedridden mother had been for- 
gotten in the excitement, and was now being 
roasted upstairs. Parts of the roof were sag- 
ging, and when some of the joists began to fall 
in, showers of sparks would rise, and with them 
another curling tongue of flame, and now and 
then a long, darting, waving sheet of flame would 
reach out into the crowd and drive them back, 
tumbling over each other. Something must be 
done for that poor, helpless old woman, I 
thought, so I asked a woman near me if she 
could tell me what part of the house the old 
lady might be found in, but she merely waved 
her hands and screamed. 

305 


3o6 


The Dawn 


“Shut up, you fool,'’ I said, “and tell me so I 
can save her." 

Her indignation brought her to her senses and 
she told me that the old lady was in the front 
room at the head of the stairs. 

While she described the location of the old 
lady's room I was taking off my ulster, coat and 
hat, and now that I knew definitely where to 
seek her, I dashed against the door with my 
shoulder. The fastenings were so weak that it 
gave way easier and quicker than I expected and 
I went sprawling at the foot of the stairs. It 
was well for me, too, that I did, for when the 
door went in a wild gush of flame and smoke 
came bellying out, but it passed harmlessly over 
my head and never touched me. As I struggled 
to my feet somebody threw a wet rag or apron 
to me and I knew that somebody with common 
sense was behind me. I wrapped the wet cloth 
around my mouth and nose and dashed up the 
stairs. At the very top, I stumbled over the old 
lady, who was lying there dead or unconscious. 
As she was small and emaciated, it was an easy 
matter to carry her down stairs. 

When I reached what I supposed to be the 
lower step I stepped off, but as I had miscalcu- 
lated the distance I stepped down two steps in- 
stead of one and almost jarred my teeth loose 
as my heel just caught on the outer rim of the 
lower step, and I was on the point of pitching 


A Flash From the Grave 307 

forward with force enough to kill the old lady, 
if she had any life left in her, but just at the 
critical moment two hands were pressed against 
my breast so firmly that I gained my balance 
and was solid on my feet in a second. I thought 
that some big strong man must have lent me his 
assistance, but as I could not see who it was 
through the smoke, I said, “Thanks, old fellow.” 
A puff of wind coming just then whirled the 
smoke upstairs again, and there, inside the little 
hall at the foot of the stairs, and almost stifled 
with smoke, stood Julia Darcy with those sweet, 
calm eyes looking into mine. 

“God bless those sweet fearless eyes,” I mur- 
mured, low enough I supposed to be unheard, 
“they are his.” And those little hands, made 
strong by the courageous soul back of them, 
had kept me from falling on my face. There 
were a number of men at the door, too, any one 
of whom would have done as I did, but I got 
there first, and they set up a cheer and took the 
old lady into the next house, where she revived. 

Julia got an apron from a little girl, and drag- 
ging me to the pump, she commenced to wash 
the soot and grime off my face. 

“That dirty apron I threw to you has ruined 
your collar,” she said. “I tore it off an old 
woman and rubbed it into the wet snow and 
dirt, so you could protect yourself.” 

“I might have known it was you,” I said. 


3o8 


The Dawn 


“You seemed to be the only woman, or girl, who 
had sense enough to do anything but become 
hysterical.’’ 

When she was washing the dirt off my face, 
our eyes met and there was a light in hers that 
I had never seen anything to equal. I thought 
I knew a whole lot about eyes and their emo- 
tional expressiveness, but here was something 
that was beyond my kep. I could not describe it 
then, or now, so I will not try. 

When she had cleaned my face to her entire 
satisfaction, she smoothed my hair back as well 
as she could with her little soft hands. She 
seemed to toy with a ring of curls around my 
forehead that had been moulded into shape by 
curling around the rim of the little forage-cap 
we used to wear so much in the army, and when 
she helped to get my coat and ulster on, she un- 
consciously talked to me in about the same tone 
of voice she must have used when she was “lit- 
tle mother” to her doll a few years before. 

She inquired if I had been hurt or burned, but 
I reassured her, stating that I had received no 
injury whatever. 

“But you might have,” she said, and her hands 
tightened almost imperceptibly on my arm. 

“Would you have been sorry if I had been 
hurt?” I enquired. 

“I would be sorry to see anybody hurt,” she 
answered evasively, “but when you looked at 
me just before you started to go in the door I 


A Plash From the Grave 309 

thought that your namesake must have looked 
just as you did then, when he fought his way 
to the side of my poor wounded papa and res- 
cued him, and thinking that way, it appeared 
to be a year before you came back/^ 

“Your papa’s eyes must have looked as yours 
did when I was coming out,” I said, “when he 
charged to that other Durand’s side and rescued 
him.” And I could have pinched my tongue 
for its impetuosity. She grasped the lapels of 
my coat, and looking steadily into my eyes, in 
a long, long look, as if trying to remember some- 
thing or compare them with something, said 
slowly : 

“Who told you that he saved the other Du- 
rand?” 

“Didn’t you tell me,” I said, evasively, “or 
perhaps it was Fred.” 

“It is strange,” she said, musingly, “very, very 
strange.” 

“What is strange?” I enquired. 

“Oh, something I was thinking of. Whose 
eyes did you refer to as being like his?” she con- 
tinued. 

“Oh, the eyes of someone I was thinking of,” 
I answered. “In the excitement of the moment, 
some thought must have passed through my 
mind of some one I had known, and I involun- 
tarily put it into words, I suppose. Your eyes 
did look beautifully courageous,” I continued, 
“yet they were calm, and the only ones I saw 


310 


The Dawn 


among all the ladies in the crowd that were ab- 
solutely free from panic and hysterics. If I had 
not been so quick in getting back I really believe 
you would have gone upstairs to look for me.’' 

“Or die with you,” she said quietly, as she 
nestled a little closer to me, without seeming to 
realize that she was doing it. 

That look of quiet determination on her face 
when I got down stairs meant that and nothing 
else. 

I have seen that expression in the eyes of 
courageous women before. I saw it on the faces 
of nuns, when death stared them in the face and 
the assagais were falling fast around them, but 
they shrunk not from what they considered their 
duty to God and humanity. I have seen the 
cruel spears pierce them through and through, 
but the expression scarcely changed, their eyes 
merely turned heavenward. I saw three of them 
dead together in the thick of the surging hand- 
to-hand engagement, where their courageous 
souls led them to succor the wounded, while the 
chaplains were away back in the rear, lecturing 
the reserves on the evil effects of rum, and be- 
lieved, I suppose, that they were doing their 
whole duty. 

The look on Julia Darcy’s face was as calm 
and courageous as that on the faces of the nuns, 
but there was something in her eyes that was 
not in theirs. 

When I looked into her eyes there was a 


A Flash From the Grave 31 i 

blaze of glorious light in them, a florescence 
from which an electric spark seemed to fly and 
go through my very heart, tingling every fiber 
as it passed. Then her eyes drooped before 
mine, as they contemplated the beautiful phe- 
nomenon, and little waves of color chased each 
other over her neck and cheek and brow, and 
she was demurely silent, while I was confident 
and happy. 

When we got to her home we found that the 
news of the little affair at the fire had preceded 
us. When Mrs. Darcy congratulated me, I told 
her that it was her daughter she should con- 
gratulate, as nobody could have gone up those 
stairs without the assistance she had given in 
that armor of wet cloth. 

I stayed there till late in the evening, and it 
was the happiest evening I had ever known. 

When I was leaving, Julia came to the gate 
with me and I longed to take her in my arms, 
but I knew that I must bide my time, as girls 
like her, are not won in a minute and a mis- 
step or a too familiar act might ruin my pros- 
pects forever. 

I held her little hand, though, as long as I 
could decently do so, and the warm gentle pres- 
sure of hers, told me as eloquently as words 
could have done, that I was not entirely distaste- 
ful to her. 

I asked permission to call on her again, and 
she accorded me that privilege; so I went away 


312 


The Dawn 


as happy as a lark and my soul was as full of 
rapture and melody. 

I stayed in Bluffville for about a week after 
that, and during the time I called several even- 
ings at the house, and we spent them happily 
together. 

As her mother had traveled extensively in 
Europe in her younger days, we talked about 
the places we had been in. It so happened that 
I had been in every place that she had seen, so 
we could pass the evening very entertainingly. 

I thought that Julia took more delight in the 
stories that I told, whether it was because a man 
sees more of the sublime and the ridiculous than 
a woman can, and can blend them better in the 
telling, or his philosophical deductions are more 
profound, I do not know. I do know that she 
wanted me to do all the talking, and while I was 
talking she had one elbow on her knee and her 
chin resting in the palm of her hand, and while 
looking towards me thus, she seemed to be drink- 
ing in everything I said. Sometimes the con- 
versation turned on the army and the wars in 
which Colonel Darcy had fought. When it did I 
managed to be profoundly ignorant, but Julia 
watched every movement of my face, and the 
varied emotions that shone on it. I feared that 
in my carelessly dropped expressions she had 
found the key to the past. 

In talking of their Durand, they naturally had 
to talk of my family and home, of Belleek, Bally- 


A Flash From the Grave 313 

shannon, and Bundoran, and I had a hard time 
of it trying to look disinterested. 

Mrs. Darcy asked me if I knew the Fermanagh 
Durands. I said that I had heard of them and 
that I understood they were very nice people. 

“Nice,” she exclaimed, “why! they are beloved 
by all the countryside, and not without reason; 
they have been beloved there for hundreds of 
years. The first of them that went to Ireland 
commanded one of Strongbow’s divisions, mar- 
ried and settled there, finally becoming more 
Irish than the Irish themselves, and in siding 
with the people they lost their estates and titles 
and became country gentlemen.” 

“They may have lost their estates, but they 
never lost their honor,” came quietly but firmly 
from Julia. 

“No, dear! they never lost their honor,” said 
the mother, “their patents of nobility only, but 
as brewers and bakers and candlestick makers 
are being ennobled nowadays, the title of gen- 
tleman is the highest in the estimation of the 
real aristocrat. A gentleman is always gentle, 
but a nobleman is not always noble. I am sure 
I would rather have a daughter of mine mar- 
ried to a man that I knew to be of good old 
lineage, even though he were poor, than to a 
man whose nobility was determined by a lucky 
blending of hops and malt.” 

“In 1798 the Durands suffered with the peo- 
ple, and for them ; they were persecuted and 


314 


The Dawn 


prosecuted, but could never be convicted, as all 
men of all creeds rallied to their defense. They 
have always led the people but they led them 
sanely, and kept the ignorant and thoughtless 
from committing foolish acts that could not do 
any good in advancing the common cause, but 
would cause untold suffering among the people. 
There never was an agrarian outrage, never a 
religious clash, within the reach of their influ- 
ence. And you could count the evictions on one 
hand that have occurred in that part of the 
county.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE SLEIGH RIDE — TREACHERY. 

When I went to my next town I managed 
to have important matters to attend to in Bluff- 
ville oftener than is usually demanded by the 
house from the superintendent of the sales de- 
partment, to which position I had just been ap- 
pointed on a fat salary, in fact I had a larger 
salary than the pay of a general in the British 
army. My duties in the new office were varied 
and responsible. I was expected to look after 
the business in the Middle West, to allot terri- 
tory and teach the salesmen how to sell the 
goods, and as the business of the house went 
up into the millions every year, and as my terri- 
tory covered almost a third of the country, I had 
my hands full. I must have given satisfaction, 
as I was twenty years with the house and only 
quit it to go in business for myself. On one of 
my trips back to Bluffville during the early 
spring, and while the snow was still on the 
ground, Fred Beresford planned a ‘^straw-ride.'’ 
The party consisted of himself and his wife, 
Julia and I, together with several young people 
of their acquaintance. We got together at night- 
fall, immediately paired and started. Julia and 
I sat in the rear seat, which was just wide enough 
for two. It was dim moonlight when we started, 
315 


3i6 


The Dawn 


then turned quite dark, but the fun was of the 
hilarious kind and we didn’t care whether the 
moon attended to business or not. The roads 
were hilly and rough, the “bob-sleds” of the 
home-made variety, so the jolts were neither 
gentle or rare. 

As a straw-ride without bumps would not be 
the genuine article, however, the more bumps, 
the more fun. 

There were several of the young fellows try- 
ing to single out Julia as partner for the trip — 
I being the quantity usually expressed by an X, 
from their standpoint. One of them in particu- 
lar was doing a lot of preliminary skirmishing 
for position, but all of his advances were re- 
pulsed without a shot. He was simply outgen- 
eraled, outmaneuvered and defeated, and by a 
girl. She had a way of changing her position, 
by adjusting somebody’s shawl or investigating 
somebody’s preparedness for a storm, that 
brought her closer to me than before, and I 
enjoyed the duel. I intended, however, to sim- 
ply appropriate her, without right or writ, habeas 
corpus or otherwise, if he got too persistent, 
providing only that she were satisfied. So we 
were together all the time. 

We found in a short time that the seat we 
had selected was not the smoothest place in 
the world, but there were no eyes back of us 
and I was entirely satisfied. 

My companion was almost jostled off a few 


The Sleigh Ride Treachery 317 


times, so I determined to take no more chances 
of the little darling getting hurt, so I put my 
arm around her, just to steady her, you know. 
She pushed it away a few times — almost. See- 
ing that it would not stay away, she just got 
disgusted at its perversity and let it stay there, 
and there was not a bit of danger of her falling 
out after that. 

We went about ten miles on that ride, my 
companion got tired, and that lovely head just 
settled on my shoulder, light as a feather, but 
when I felt it touch I just helped it to nestle 
there. What else is a man’s shoulder for, I’d 
like to know, if not for pretty heads to be nestled 
on? Then it turned real cold, and I had a big 
silk muffler that I did not need at all, and as that 
little shell of an ear that could not very well be 
on my other shoulder was cold, I put the muffler 
around her ears, and in doing so her face came 
so close to mine that I really could not resist 
the temptation any longer, so I turned her head 
to the proper angle and kissed her fairly and 
squarely on the lips and that being my first 
American kiss, I hereby recommend the Ameri- 
can variety for its various charming qualities. 

She started to adjust the collar of my ulster, 
because, she said, I would get cold without the 
muffler, but her hand missed the place in the 
dark and went around my neck. I then and 
there imagined myself back on that bleak moun- 


The Dawn 


318 

tainside, in Ireland, and both of my arms went 
around her instinctively, as they did when she 
was a baby, and I just pressed her to my heart 
tighter than I ever dreamed of pressing the 
fragile little baby, and I kissed her again. That 
time it was mutual, and long, and sweet, and 
while her face was so close to mine, I whis- 
pered to her, “You dear, little, sweet darling, I 
love you with all my heart and soul and strength, 
and forever” and she said not a word, but 
actions are sometimes more eloquent than words 
and I was satisfied. I wanted words, though, so 
I asked her if there was any hope of my love 
being returned, and that delinquent but obliging 
moon, peeping from behind a cloud just then, I 
saw her nod her pretty head two or three times, 
and that was all the answer I got, but it was 
enough, as she never lied to me then, nor since. 

That kiss was more than a kiss, it was the 
ratification of a contract made with a dying man, 
it was a seal, and the wax will never be broken 
by a vandal. 

I came to see her often within the next three 
months, but there was poison being placed in the 
paths of both. I learned that she had another 
beau, by hearing them twitting her about it. 

It appeared that he was a young merchant 
from another town. Then I learned that an 
aunt objected to me, because I was of another 
religion, and the aunt’s remarks seemed to be 
producing the effect for which they were in- 


The Sleigh Ride Treachery 319 

tended. All the family showed a growing cool- 
ness except Fred and his wife. I could see no 
change in them at all, and neither interfered. 

I could see plainly enough that all the others 
were anxious to put a stop to what they sup- 
posed to be a passing flirtation. Julia was still 
loyal to me, but I could see that she was ill at 
ease. She used the same skirmishing tactics to 
avoid me that she did to avoid another the night 
of the straw-ride. 

I got her alone one evening, and I asked her 
to marry me, and she consented, with this reser- 
vation : I must go away till they talked them- 
selves out. I placed the engagement ring on 
her finger, and she turned it around in the light 
to admire it. She then took it off, and after kiss- 
ing it, she put it away, to be worn, she said, all 
night, every night. I went away the next morn- 
ing and I did not see her again till the 4th of 
July. 

She wrote to me regularly for a while, then 
the letters got scarcer and scarcer, and I was too 
far away to come back. At last the letters 
stopped altogether. 

I was writing her letters, all this time, that 
must have scorched the mail pouches, but they 
failed to draw a single response. I was beside 
myself with grief and apprehension, but no let- 
ter came to soothe my troubled heart. I deter- 
mined, finally, to go and see her and demand 
an explanation. 


320 


The Dawn 


I got to BlufYville on the 4th and found, to 
my unutterable grief, that she was away at a 
picnic with a party of friends, including the mer- 
chant beau. I was broken-hearted at what I 
supposed to be duplicity on her part, but I was 
determined to settle the whole trouble before 
leaving this time, one way or the other. I in- 
tended to ask her to explain her conduct, and 
I knew she would not lie. 

During the day I was told by friends of both 
of us that she had been taunted for making up 
with a stranger, who might be a married man 
for all she knew. It had been reported, also, 
that I had formed another alliance in another 
town. All in all, my character was being han- 
dled as carelessly as if I were running for Con- 
gress on the Mormon ticket. 

I went up that night to the house, and after 
waiting a long time for her, she came home, es- 
corted to the gate by my rival, who left as soon 
as he saw me. When she came in we looked at 
each other, but neither of us said a word. There 
was something in my throat that did not tend 
to sweeten my voice, if I had a voice, which was 
doubtful just then. 

I tried to speak, but a husky something that 
did not at all resemble the human voice was all 
that I could produce in the way of sound. She 
saw my efforts and burst out crying. I put my 
arm around her, but she broke loose from me, 
and facing me, sobbed : 


The Sleigh Ride Treachery 321 

‘‘How dare you touch me, sir ! You, who have 
a sweetheart in every town, a wife, for all I 
know. I will go upstairs and get your ring. You 
can give it to your Miss Foster, of Farmerville, 
or anybody else you may chose. I will never see 
you after tonight.” 

I burst out laughing, but it was a mirthless, 
nervous laugh, that I could no more resist than 
I could resist a sneeze. 

“That is all the pity that a man has for a girl 
whom he has grossly deceived,” she said, as she 
almost dropped into a chair and buried her head 
in her hands, weeping bitterly. 

I went down on my knees at her feet as hum- 
bly as I ever did to my God. 

‘T did not laugh at you, dear,” I said, “I 
laughed at the absurd things you have been say- 
ing. Who, might I ask, is Miss Foster?” 

“You know,” she said. 

“But I do not know,” I returned, “I don’t 
know anybody on all this earth, man, woman 
or child, named Foster.” 

“Do you mean to tell me; sir, that you are not 
engaged to be married to a lady of that name?” 
she demanded. 

“Well, hardly! I don’t see how I could be 
engaged to a person that I do not know even 
the existence of,” I answered. 

“When were you in Farmerville?” was her 
next question, and I answered: 


322 


The Dawn 


‘^Never! This is as close to that town as I’ve 
ever been or ever expect to be.” 

“Then somebody must be lying atrociously,” 
she said. 

“Tell me the whole story, dear, and let us 
sift it and run it to its author. Perhaps we may 
find some motive back of it. People don’t usu- 
ally lie about another’s character without an ob- 
ject in view, and a serious object. It is too 
dangerous.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


EXPLANATION, RECOGNITION, RECONCILIATION. 

‘‘Now, dear,” I said, “I want you to tell me 
all you have heard about me since I went away, 
so that we can reach a solution of the whole con- 
temptible conspiracy.” 

“Well! I was told today that you were to 
marry that Foster girl in a month or so, and the 
people who told me are in a position to know, 
as they are from the same town.” 

“Have they any object in view that will be for- 
warded by your breaking our engagement?” 

“I don’t know, I am sure.” 

“If it was a man, does he want to marry you 
himself?” 

“No, he is already married, and his wife con- 
firmed his statement.” 

“Are they relatives or friends of any one who 
wants to marry you?” 

“Yes, they are cousins to a gentleman who 
wants to marry me.” 

“Ha! now we have it,” I exclaimed. “And 
the whole contemptible crowd are perjuring 
themselves to poison your mind against me. Did 
the gentleman ask you to marry him today?” I 
continued. 

“Yes, he did.” 

“And you accepted him, I suppose?” 

323 


324 


The Dawn 


“I think your actions have given me the right 
to accept him or anybody else, if I please.” 

“If they had used fair means to rob me of your 
love I would have to bow to the inevitable, but 
I am surprised that you, Julia, the daughter of 
a soldier and a gentleman, one of the most hon- 
orable men that ever lived, would believe a mean 
contemptible perjurer and would not believe me 
or give me an opportunity of proving my inno- 
cence.” 

She looked at me again, wonderingly, but 
said not a word. 

I got up and said, “Julia Darcy, I have only 
the word of a stranger to give you against the 
avowals of your friends. My word happens to 
be that of a gentleman, however, and I use the 
term in its European sense. I give you that 
word now, I have no entanglements, I have no 
one in all America to care for me, since you have 
ceased to do so. I have no one to care for. I 
offered you a clean heart and I fear nothing 
you can hear about me, if it is the truth. If I 
wanted to call on others to help me win you, 
they would not need to lie. I would permit them 
to tell you my whole history from my birth up 
to this present minute, as there is nothing in 
my life, past or present, that I would need to 
hide from you. Much as I love you I would 
rather part from you now and forever, than win 
you by a fraud or subterfuge. I warn you now, 
that the man who will use fraud to win a wife 


Explanation 


325 


will use more fraud and more subterfuge to part 
with her again, if it ever suits his purpose to do 
so. You must decide now between a gentleman 
and a villain.’’ 

She got up and came over to me, with tear- 
dimmed eyes and with voice broken by sobs, 
said : 

“Oh, Mr. Durand, how can I decide? They 
told me so many things about you. And yet, I 
am not satisfied. I intended to break off our 
engagement, but I would rather see you prove 
that they lied about you. Oh ! if that other Du- 
rand were only here, he would not allow any- 
body to treat me in this manner. , He promised 
my papa on his deathbed, while their hands were 
clasped as soldier parts from soldier on the brink 
of the grave, that if ever I needed a protector or 
adviser he would be both, and the sister of 
charity said she knew he would keep his word, 
and I know it too.” 

“You seem to think more of the Durand who 
is a mere memory than a real live Durand,” I 
said, “but as that other Durand was, and is, the 
best friend I have, would you believe him if he 
told you that I might be trusted with your fu- 
ture ?” 

“Yes, I would believe him, and act as he sug- 
gested, in this case anyway.” 

“Did you know him well?” she asked anx- 
iously. 

“Yes, I knew him since he was a boy. I know 


326 


The Dawn 


more of that last death-bed scene, too, than your 
sister of charity. Did you ever consider it 
strange that, if all the obligation was on your 
father's side, he should add to it by requesting 
a man to whom he was already so deeply in- 
debted, to take some more on his shoulders, by 
promising to protect his daughter? Your sister 
of charity evidently told you only half the story. 
She might have told that your grand, brave 
father was the creditor — not the debtor ; that he 
had cut his way to the young man’s side when 
he was down, wounded, and imprisoned under a 
dead horse, with a whole troop of savages about 
to mutilate him, and that he, therefore, owed 
his life to your father, and consequently when he 
went to your father’s assistance he was not doing 
anything heroic, he was merely acting the honest 
man — paying his debts. Seeing, however, that 
you think so much of him and believe in him so 
implicitly I will have him vouch for me, if you 
will tell me now that you love me for myself 
alone, and all you need to know from him is that 
I am a gentleman and worthy to aspire to be 
your husband.” 

She absolutely nestled into my arms, and 
reaching her two arms around my neck, pulled 
my head forward and kissed me so many times 
that I lost count. 

“My own sweet boy,” she said, ‘T do believe 
him and he is here to vouch for you. I know 


Explanation 


327 


who you are, too. I remember you, oh, so well, 
now. 

“Come to the glass till I show you how I re- 
member you,'’ and putting a lamp on each side of 
it, she told me to look in, and this is what I 
saw : 

A rather youthful looking face, for the age, 
clean shaved, but perspiring copiously, and what 
with the heat of the day and the anguish I had 
undergone in the last hour, there was a perfect 
ring of curls around my forehead, from ear to 
ear. 

“That ring of curls,” she said, “brings you 
back to me. I remember kissing my little hands 
to a boy with those same curls, so you cannot 
deny that you are my own darling Captain Du- 
rand.” 

“I do not need to do it now, sweetheart,” I 
said. “You love me for myself and you are go- 
ing to marry a rhan, not a memory, while I will 
marry the sweetest, bravest little girl in all the 
world, not a mere token of gratitude, I wanted 
you to love me for what I am, not for what I 
was.” 

“I do love you for your very self, but I respect 
you for your association with my little hero boy. 
I have suspected you for a long time, but I was 
not sure, I was not sure. It broke my heart to 
see you so miserable, my poor boy,, and I was 
crying for you. I would soon have known, as I 


328 


The Dawn 


wrote to Ireland for information, and I intended 
to win you back from that other girl they spoke 
of— if I could/^ 

At that moment her mother came to the door 
and said : “There is a letter here for you, Julia, 
from Ireland.” 

“I don’t want it now, mama, but come here, 
quick, till I present you to your new son-in-law. 
Mama ! dear mama ! this is our own darling Cap- 
tain Durand, and I love him with all my heart.” 

I will drop the curtain on the little scene that 
followed between mother and daughter — and 
son. 

Mrs. Darcy sent for Fred and his wife, and 
when they came there was more rejoicing. 

Fred astounded us by telling us that he had 
known who I was since the day before the fire, 
but he cautioned his informant to keep the whole 
thing a profound secret; he wanted, he said, to 
s.ee if all Julia’s talk of me, since she was a 
child, would take tangible form when we did 
meet, and when he saw how things were going 
he let them take their natural course; he knew 
what the end would be after the fire, no matter 
what little obstacles might be injected between 
us. 

I had to tell them my story and all about my 
first meeting with the colonel, of his heroism 
and his death, and his little daughter was sob- 
bing on my breast all the time. 

When the sun was peeping over the hilltops 


Explanation 


329 


I finished, and the mother, placing Julia’s hand 
in mine, said, ‘‘Take her, Captain, she is yours 
with all my heart; you are worthy of her, and 
that is the greatest compliment I could pay you. 
She is worthy of you, and that is the greatest 
compliment I could pay her. I believe you chil- 
dren were born for each other and I am proud of 
being her mother — and yours.” 

The sweet girl entwined her arms about my 
neck and they left us there together. 

When we were alone again, she sat on my 
knee for the first time since she was a child. 

I asked her when she first began to love me, 
as a real flesh and blood man — not as a name — 
and her answer was: 

“When you stood on that threshold there, 
looking like ‘a big silly.’ ” Then she said the feel- 
ing was intensified when I looked at her before 
p-oing into the burning house. 

“There was something in your eyes,” she con- 
tinued, “that I know must be in the eyes of a 
soldier when going into some desperate charge, 
and I thought of how my papa looked in war, 
and how you looked during that desperate fight 
for his life.” 

“Do you know, little sweetheart,” I said, 
“there was something in your eyes, too, when 
you stood there in that door while the foul 
smoke belched into your face that would well 
become a good soldier, under those conditions 
you mentioned, and I saw your heroic father 


330 


The Dawn 


looking out of those eyes of yours again. Then, 
a little later, I saw something else in those eyes 
that I will swear was not born in them.’’ 

“I know what was in them, dear,” she said, 
‘‘and I noticed that you did, too. Well ! you will 
see that same thing in them as long as there is 
life in them and they are turned on you.” 

The next day our little romance was all over 
town, and when I walked down the street I was 
as much observed as I was on that day, long 
ago, when I rode in front of a Lancer up the 
street of Belleek. 

We were married in September. So, after 
all the heart burnings over three continents, the 
hard knocks, the darkness and despair, when the 
sun rose on that glorious morning in September, 
when that sweet girl came into my life and I 
knew that no law on earth could part us, I fer- 
vently thanked God, and said, “After that long, 
lugubrious night of somberness and unrest, this 
surely is ‘The Dawn.’ ” 


CHAPTER XL. 


THE END. 

The only connecting link I have, or want to 
have with the past, is a poem I wrote one even- 
ing in a hotel, under peculiar circumstances. A 
fierce storm was raging, the thunder rolled and 
the lightning flashed, the wind blew in great 
gusts, while the rain came down in torrents, 
lashing the window panes. The roar of the 
thunder and the wind, the noise made by the 
falling rain as it dashed against the window 
and into the street, causing big bubbles to jump 
and float around, reminded me of the noise made 
by the Fall of Belleek. A train of thought 
passed slowly through my mind, the Harvest 
Fair, the night on the mountain and the moor, 
the old thatched school with its troop of youth- 
ful companions, not as they are now, with a 
gray hair here and there around the temple, but 
as they were, full of life and youth and anima- 
tion. Alice Devere was with the rest, brown 
curls, pink cheeks, roguish, tantalizing eyes, 
smiles, tears and all. As the thoughts passed 
slowly through, the picture of each went with 
them. A peculiar feeling stole over me and an 
irresistible desire to write something seized me, 
so I drew a sheet of paper towards me and 
scribbled this poem on it. I threw it carelessly 
331 


332 


The Dawn 


in my grip, and when I was unpacking it one 
day at home I found the sheet and handed it to 
my wife and she read this : 


THE OLD THATCHED SCHOOL. 

Here from the door of the old thatched school, 
Through the hawthorn bows and leaves, 

I see the sloping gables and roof 

Of a farmhouse with moss-covered eaves ; 

I hear the wind as it sighs through the trees, 
And the corncrake's call in the grass, 

I see the crows in their homeward flight 

Dive and whirl through the air as they pass. 

Here I stole from school when I was young 
On pretense that my jacket I tore 

And talked with Alice, the farmer's girl. 

As I borrowed a pin at the door; 

She coyly tossed her ringlets brown. 

But obligingly pinned up the tear. 

The school might burn or the school might close 
For all that I would care. 

Alice being my first sweetheart, 

I was always hers to command, 

I would forfeit the very best I had 

For the thrill of the touch of her hand; 

We parted one day near the old thatched school. 
Fate decreed we should meet there no more. 


The End 


333 

And the ruined old school is the tomb of the 
hopes 

Cherished there in the sweet days of yore. 

’Tis past twenty years since the last time I stood 
On the spot that I think of today, 

And Alice is married and so am I, 

And both of us sprinkled with gray ; 

But both till weTe laid in the grave some day 
Will remember with pangs of regret 
Those days of our innocent childhood vows 
When we promised we'd never forget. 

The schoolmaster sleeps his long, long sleep. 
The schoolhouse stands there no more. 

But God-given memory brings back to me now 
Each face as Fve seen it of yore; 

The farmer, too, by the schoolmaster sleeps. 
And the nettles grow rank o'er each tomb. 
Her children and mine still pray for their souls 
As do we while our eyes fill with gloom. 

'Tis well to think thus of the days that are past. 
It softens and mellows one's life, 

I hope that she's happy as I am today. 

With my dear little children and wife; 

But I long to see that dear old school 
And the friends of my youth ere I die. 

And talk over the stories together we read, 
The farmer’s young Alice and I. 


334 


The Dawn 


When she finished reading it, she smiled on 
me through a suspicion of tears, that little sat- 
isfied smile of hers, showing the little pearly 
teeth as she in her infantile security was wont to 
do, and putting her arms around my neck and 
laying her golden head on my shoulder, she said 
in her gentle, sympathetic way: 

“You poor boy, it was too bad.’’ And such is 
the loving, unselfish sympathy of a good woman. 

She knew, of course, that that picture was but 
a fleeting remembrance, that it was but a mental 
picture that had little effect on the heart, except 
in the way that all childhood scenes revived 
affect us. 

She knows that her position is secure, that 
where she is enthroned there is no room for an- 
other. Her gentle, unselfish nature, her beauty 
of face and mind and heart were the architects, 
they built for her a throne and she knows that 
it will never crumble. 


JF you like this hook^ oblige the author 
by having some of your friends order 
direct from the undersigned^ by sending 
S^.SOy when a copy will be sent imme- 
diately postpaid. 


J. H. MORTIMER, 

32 South Whipple St. Chicago, III. 


335 








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